


With All We've Lost

by Foureyed_Pufferfish



Series: With All We've Lost [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied Torture, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Team as Family, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 71,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foureyed_Pufferfish/pseuds/Foureyed_Pufferfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew death would not be swift for him. But now, in the midst of the horrible disease ravaging his body, he wished for nothing greater than a few more cycles. </p><p>Ratchet-centric</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after the episode "Stronger, Faster" and diverges into AU from there.

"Give me your hand!" Jack, bruised and exhausted himself, reached forcefully over the cliff edge for his struggling friend's hand. With a grunt, the young Rafael thrust his hand into Jack's palm. The two flopped back onto solid ground, panting and gasping, just as a lemon yellow muscle car skidded to a halt above their heads. Bumblebee rearranged his circuitry faster than could be comprehended and hovered protectively over his charge. He beeped and whirred in his normal cybertronian dialect.

"We're fine, Bee," Jack managed, "Go help the others." The beeping began again in what came across as a protest.

"Fight's over," Raf breathed, translating for his mute companion, "Cons fled." Jack mumbled incoherently, grasping his cramping sides as he pulled himself up. Raf sat up cradling an obviously broken leg. With a wine, Bumblebee gently scooped the boy up and transformed carefully around him. Jack hurried in as well when the Camero opened a door for him.

"Where's Arcee?" The dashboard lit up in synchronicity with Bee's electronic clicks.

"She's helping to carry back the energon they secured." Jack hummed, pleased. The Autobots had become more and more desperate for a fuel source. Anything they could get was helpful and crucial. Bee chirped quietly as he commed Ratchet to inform him of his young friend's injury. The medic's voice came over the comm. filled with static.

"I'll have med-bay ready, I assume I don't need to contact June?" The white mech sounded exhausted. Jack knew he'd been having trouble recharging as of late, but his voice was more sleep laden than the human had expected.

"Just a broken leg, Ratchet." Raf responded, "I trust you to fix it." The medic grunted before the link went dead. Jack huffed back, ignoring Bee playing with the radio, something the boy likened to a harsh form of laughter. Rafael tapped on the dash gently to tell the Camero to pay attention to the road as he began to drift to the opposite lane. Bee whirred as if telling his companion off for being a backseat driver. Raf only giggled, still holding his throbbing leg.

-

The medic gently help up the child's leg as he wound casting material around the ankle and lower leg, scoffing when Raf winced yet again.

"Stop fidgeting, Rafael, or your cast will be crooked." Ratchet placed a finger on the child's shoulder as if to hold him down and quiet his movements.

"Sorry," Raf muttered, "It just hurts."

"The pain killers should take effect soon but until then there is nothing to be done." The medic inspected his work, patting down the final wrapping before offering his palm for the human to climb into. He did as instructed and was brought to the couch to join his friends in watching cartoons with Bumblebee. The bot clicked happily at his arrival. "I've asked for Ms. Darby to bring over a pair of crutches," Ratchet informed, "But remain seated until she arrives. You'll be worse than you are now if I have to repair you again because you've tripped." Raf gave a thumbs up, glaring at Miko for giggling. 

With a last look at his friends, Jack leapt up to follow the medic out. He carefully observed him from a distance, noting how his normally brisk pace had slowed considerably. He also seemed to be favoring his back, rubbing his backstruts from time to time and cautiously leaning back as if to relieve tension. After a few moments Jack became increasingly worried. Could cybertronians get colds? Or arthritis? He knew Ratchet was old. Perhaps his systems were rusting. 

"Jack?" The human jumped at Ratchet's voice, the bot never turning to face him. "You've been standing there for at least five clicks, is there something you need?"

"N-no," Jack stuttered out, "Nothing."

"Then would you kindly vacate my medbay." The Autobot seemed on the edge of snapping at the boy. Not something uncharacteristic of him but also not something Jack enjoyed. He preferred for his cranium to remain as it was, without a wrench lodged in his skull. Though, that didn't deter him.

"You okay, Ratch?" The bot remained still, silently calculating an answer.

"I will be." Before Jack could respond the medbay doors opened behind him. The silent cue did not go unnoticed so the boy took his leave. Ratchet sighed as the doors resealed. He fiddled absently with the device in his hand, no longer processing what his hands were doing. The sensitive nodes in his fingers were throbbing and his pedes ached worse than normal. His processor was the worst, however. Lacking sleep and over-clocked, his mind had become fearfully sluggish. As a medic, not to mention the team's only medic, he needed to be at peak efficiency at all times.

With a grunt, the CMO pulled himself onto an empty berth, letting his pedes hang over the edge and rubbing between his optics in a very human gesture. With an ear splitting screech, the medbay doors slid open once again. Ratchet knew without looking that Optimus stood at his side, a hand on his shoulder armor.  
"I really need to get around to fixing that door," Ratchet mumbled into his hands.

"How are you fairing, old friend?" Ratchet groaned in response. "Go and recharge, there is nothing that needs your attention at the moment." The white mech shook his head.

"I've been attempting to recharge for a week now, it only makes me more agitated." Despite Prime's hand on his shoulder, Ratchet attempted to pull himself from the berth. Optimus clicked. 

"At least relax,” Optimus’ voice was admittedly soothing. "Do you believe June could help?" Ratchet shook his head, optics still closed. 

"She's a nurse, not a medical researcher, much less a mechanic."

"Is there a reason I should be a mechanic?" Both bots turned to find the subject of there conversation at the door. She was dwarfed by the equipment in the room, much less the Autobots, but seemed undeterred by their size. "I dropped the crutches off with Raf and thought I'd come say hello." She climbed as gracefully as she could to sit on Ratchet's knee. The two had grown close, poring over human medical documents together. "Jack's worried about you. He says you've not been recharging." Ratchet huffed, annoyed with the human's inability to keep to his own business. 

"I'm perfectly fine. Just a lot on my mind." Optimus' glare was enough to bore a hole into the back of his head and yet was strangely gentle. 

"Ratchet," he chastised, "you and I both now that is a lie" The medic glared back. "Any help we can get at this point would be extremely beneficial."

“If I can help in any way,” June patted the mech’s knee, “Please, let me. You’ve all helped us so much in the past; we’re willing to do anything to return the favor.” 

Optimus help up a silencing hand. “What we do is no favor to be returned, Mrs. Darby. But we would appreciate the help.” June nodded, waiting for the mechs to continue. Ratchet sighed again, hanging his head in defeat.

“My creators died when I was very young,” June gave the Autobot an odd look, “My parents,” Ratchet clarified, “They died of a virus known as CCG or Chronic Circuit Glitch.”

“I-I’, sorry,” June sputtered out, not knowing what to say. The medic simply held up a hand, refusing sympathy. 

“This is the reason I decided to become a medic, In order to cure them.” He paused, sucking in vast amounts of air through his ventilation systems, attempting to cool his over-taxed circuitry, “By the time I finished medical school, they were long deactivated.”

“Let me guess,” The nurse replied, “It’s genetic.” Ratchet simply nodded.

“Ratchet has shown symptoms of CCG for several stellar cycles,” Optimus shifted from one leg to the other, hand still placed gently on his companion’s shoulder, “However, only with the recent stress of the Decepticon’s reemergence and our dwindling energon supplies has its true effects begun to make themselves known. 

“Those symptoms are…?” The nurse was extremely cautious with her tone. She’d worked with patients inflicted with chronic illness before. She didn’t want to upset the three story cybertronian any further with her inquiries. Ratchet, however, despite his evident weariness, seemed to be maintaining his emotions in a calm, professional manner. 

“Shaking, circuitry misfires, seizures, and sensory discomfort,” He absently rubbed his all too sensitive servos as he spoke, “in the later stages, CCG patients lose all ability to control motor function, suffer from partial sensory deprivation and experience short term memory loss.” He bowed his head, “My sire couldn’t remember even my carrier’s name by the time he died, though he knew he was bonded to her.” June could do nothing but stand and gape. The elder medic had always been a strong symbol of confidence, despite his grouchy disposition. To see him breaking at the thought was unnerving.

“I’ll do everything I can to help,” She blurted, speaking almost too quickly. Optimus nodded his silent gratitude as Ratchet rose, shuffling to his desk. June had to scramble to get off his knee before the plating that extruded from his joint crushed her.

“I’m not sure there is much you can do.” It was obvious that the white mech was avoiding eye contact by fiddling with anything his hands could find. “I’ve been researching CCG in my spare time since long before the war began. If nothing traumatic happens, I estimate two stellar cycles at most before the damage becomes irreversible.” The medbay was silent for a long moment, only the squeaking of ungreased joints echoed through the room as Ratchet shifted uncomfortably, attempting to relieve pressure on his aching pedes. June could do nothing but stare, her eyes glazed over and her head slightly bowed. She’d known colleges to grow ill before, it was not uncommon in the medical field. It happening to any of the Autobots was eye opening, much less the medic. She’d spent many nights teaching him organic medicine but had never consciously noticed anything amiss. Then again, any quaking she did see she quickly passed off as age. She couldn’t help but regret not seeing a problem sooner.

“Have you told the kids?” Ratchet shook his head, remaining hunched over his work bench.

“There has been no need to do so,” Optimus lowered slowly to June’s level, “And we do not plan on telling them until the glitch progresses to a noticeable level.”

“When would that be?”

“A few months at most,” he mumbled. Ratchet seemed to have completely tuned out their conversation. He was busying himself with collecting what appeared to be a pile of human sized data pads. Optimus motioned silently for June to climb into his hand. She did so with little protest. Months ago the thought of being carried by an alien robot would have disturbed her but she’d learned to trust them and even began to enjoy their company. 

As silently as was possible for the massive Autobot leader, he carried the human out of the medbay, wincing as the doors squeaked open. June was always amazed by how smoothly the Autobots carried themselves, osculating little as they walked. Still she clung to Optimus’ thumb as not to fall off with every step. Eventually the two came upon a door that June recognized as Prime’s normally off-limits office. Entering, he placed her among the datapads on his desk. The office was surprisingly unorganized. Stacks of paper and data pads leaned dangerously in piles about not only the desk’s surface but the floor as well. A half finished cube of energon sat off to the side, glowing a faint blue. Even the large metal chair that Optimus eased himself into was covered in chipped paint. June sat leaning against an elbow Prime had carefully set on the desk to place his faceplate against a servo. 

June finally spoke up against the unnerving silence. “He’s scared, isn’t he?” The Autobot sighed.

“I briefly met his parents in their final stages. They were very kind bots, but very far gone. His sire asked my name at least five times within thirty klicks.” June ran through quick mental calculations to convert the cybertronian time measurements to a more familiar form. “Ratchet had to hand feed his carrier and constantly watch for seizures. It was a difficult experience for me to witness, thus I cannot imagine the stress he was subject to then and the fear he feels now. I can honestly say that I am more concerned for his mental wellbeing rather than his physical health.” The two paused, ingesting the information. 

“Do the other bots or Fowler know?” Optimus shook his head. 

“No, however they are growing suspicious.” Prime rubbed at his optics, obviously stressed.

“Fowler had connections to tens of brilliant scientists. He would be a valuable resource.” Optimus nodded.

“We have already considered that. Ratchet has refused human help. I am honestly amazed he has allowed you to know anything.” The silence that consumed the room was all telling, all encompassing. Hydraulics hissed with tension in time with the human’s slow, calming breaths. Neither were far from the gravity of the situation. The ailment had been studied for millennia with little result, now only two years remained until the lead researcher in the field succumbed to the very disease that had consumed his focus in his younger years. Both understood how low their chances of finding a cure were. 

Sensing his companion’s distress, Optimus placed a hand at her back, offering it up. She gratefully climbed in. “Do not despair, Ms. Darby, both you and Ratchet are brilliant medics. I have high hopes that you will find a cure.” June only sighed, leaning her head against the cybertronian’s thumb as he carried her back to the main room were her son sat, oblivious of the good bot dying in the next room over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention at the start of the story. The original idea of CCG is not my creation. I have taken the concept, morphed it and expanded the scientific founding for it, though keeping the name and base concept the same. Forgive me for forgetting to mention that earlier.

Two months passed before any substantial event came to pass. June poured tirelessly over the datapads Ratchet had provided her with. They were filled with information on medical engineering, cybertronian technology and anatomy, previous research on CCG and Ratchet’s own medical reports. It was heavy reading and often frustratingly confusing, but June fought through it, spending ever day off with the medic, questioning him and aiding in everyday work. He’d begun shaking beyond his exhaustion, symptoms appearing despite his state of spark. 

Beyond physical aspects, Ratchet remained the same mech he’d always been: cranky, ill-tempered and unwilling to show any true concern for his condition. Though, his aim with wrenches had decreased somewhat, much to his companion’s relief. There were days when the mech’s depression seeped through his armored platting, turning the air about him dismal and his dedication to ash, though only ever in the security of his medbay or in the dark of his quarters. Due to the current situation on the front lines, stress was high and Ratchet’s ailment progressed more quickly than had been expected. Their estimations had been reduced to a single year. 

Optimus announced a private meeting with Agent Fowler the day after his discussion with June and the Agent agreed to help them where he could, petitioning for more supplies and easing every burden he could. It had been a taxing two months for the mech and those surrounding him.

-

“Optimus!” The shout echoed across the main room, shaking some of the more fragile equipment. The red and blue mech turned to face the address. “The scanners have detected an energon signal near a small town in Iowa, just on the perimeter.” Prime strode to join the medic at the computer console, the others not far behind him.

“Moving?” Ratchet shook his head. 

“No sign of movement. The signal simply appeared. I don’t know why the scanners weren’t picking it up before hand.” The mech scratched his head, “It’s worth investigating but be careful, it may be a trap.” Optimus nodded, signaling the three younger bots at his back to follow to the ground bridge. 

“You will be alright, Old Friend?” Optimus paused, calling over his shoulder. Arcee and Bulkhead exchanged curious looks. Bumblebee shrugged between them. 

“It’s just ground bridge duty, Optimus,” Ratchet sighed, annoyance lacing his voice. Prime simply nodded, stepping through the open ground bridge. Ratchet sighed the moment his companions disappeared, allowing his shoulders to slump. With a grunt, he pulled himself into an Autobot sized chair, close enough to still watch the monitors while resting his sore pedes. The monitors beeped steadily, displaying his teammate’s location as well as the faintly pulsing energon spike. The monotony and warm air began to force his optics closed and his processor into recharge. 

Ratchet’s helm snapped up as he pried his optics open, realizing he’d fallen into recharge. With a quick glance up he sighed in relief. He’d only dozed off for a few minutes. Optimus’ troops had yet to reach the edge of the town. The medic stood, deciding to busy himself instead. Pulling up a window beside the previous one, he began logging data from previous outings, and typing up overdue reports to the government. He rubbed the back of his finial tenderly, an ache had built up in his processor over the previous week, peaking everyday soon after noon, though this solar cycle seemed to be the worst yet. His optics grew fuzzy, and he took a swaying step back, realizing, as he felt his legs give way under him, that something was drastically wrong. A sharp pain rang through his helm as he fell, a horrible screeching surrounding in his audios. Eventually, the shaking died down and reality seeped away.

As darkness snuffed out all consciousness, an echo of sound penetrated its walls. And while it could not pull him back, the familiar voice was soothing. At least, if need be, someone would be present to manage the ground bridge.

-

Previously

School had been longer than seemed possible, dragging on at every turn. Miko slumped in her chair, prepared to bang her head soundly on her desk when a note appeared in her lap. She glanced at the girl next to her who shrugged and pointed across the room. Rafael sat at the end of her gaze, looking as if he’d never stopped his furious note taking. Sighing, she pried the paper open, unsurprised at the short, coded message. Bots on lead. No pick up. Bike? She tapped twice on her desk, making sure the sound was loud enough for him to hear. He nodded silently, just enough for the foreign exchange student to see, marking that he understood.

Miko sighed, looks liked they’d be biking today, again. After many days spent waiting outside the school for their companions, Raf had suggested to Bumblebee that he text him if they were going to be late or couldn’t make the pick up at all. Jack often had work after school, so it rarely affected him, but the Autobots’ side trips, though necessary, had proved to be quite a nuisance to the other two children. They’d made it a habit to stow bikes behind the school, just in case.

Lost in thought, Miko hardly acknowledged the release bell signaling the end to that week’s structured torture session. Raf stood patiently in front of her desk, backpack slung loosely over his slight shoulder, as she collected her things. They walked silently together to the back of the school, unable to openly discuss the Autobots in public. 

The bike ride through the Nevada desert was long and grueling; the heat was not something to be taken lightly and with Rafael’s recently healed leg, the trip was made even longer. As fall drew to its end and winter encroached upon the land, the temperature remained remarkably warm, as summer had long ago evaporated all of the desert’s moisture.

“Hey, Raf!” Miko huffed between peddling, “did you see the stunt me and Bulk pulled Saturday?”

Raf sighed, “Yes, Miko. You’ve showed both Jack and I the video you took at least three times.” He had to nearly shout over the worrying clunking noise his bike was making.

“But you have to agree, that jump was sweet!” Raf just shook his head as Miko pumped her fists until her bike almost toppled in a rough ditch. She caught herself, awkwardly smiling, face a gentle red.

“I don’t think I've ever seen Optimus so peeved at one of us.” Miko swatted at the air as if to brush away his comment. 

“Forget Optimus,” She grinned childishly, “Did you see Ratchet’s face when he saw the dent in Bulk’s door. I’m pretty sure that he left with more dents than he came in with.” 

“Careful Miko,” Raf chided, still giving the occasional worried glance to his out of kilter bike, “I’ve seen Ratchet hit a bot square on the head with a wrench from across the base. He’d have no qualms with squashing you.”

She gave him an almost disgusted look, “Optimus wouldn't let him.” Raf shrugged, it was her funeral, “Speaking of the Doc-Bot, has he seemed grumpier to you lately?” 

“Bee was saying the same thing,” Raf mussed almost to himself, “He also said he’d been looking like he doesn’t feel so well.” Yet again, Miko simply shrugged off the notion.

“Maybe he’s just turning into a grumpy old Mech,” She snorted, “I mean he’s like, what, ancient.”

“Mm, maybe,” Raf hummed. Suddenly his bike sputtered, the chains grinding loudly against the gears, having finally snapped. Raf bent over the spokes, lifting the snapped chain from the dirt. “Speaking of Ratch, looks like he’ll be fixing this again.” 

“What is this, the third time this month,” Miko called as she circled the boy, “Dude, you need a new bike.” Raf simply shrugged, standing to begin the mile trek back to base.

-

“Yo, Docbot!” Miko called the moment the doors had opened, “Raf’s bike broke down again. Your weld on the chain died!” Raf flinched, ready for the resulting rebuttal. None came. Miko cocked her head, “Ratchet?” Both children shrugged, leaning their bikes against the wall. Their small footsteps were surprisingly loud in the all-to-quiet base. As they rounded the entrance bay corner, a glint of white came into view. 

Both children had seen an unconscious Autobot before but the sight of Ratchet’s crumpled form caused both to seize up, feet gluing to the ground. His limbs were splayed out awkwardly, one arm pinned beneath his torso, the point of his chevron holding his head at an odd angel. Energon leaked from a dent in the side of his helm. A small puddle had formed beneath his cheek, covering his face in glowing blue. 

Suddenly Miko snapped out her daze, pulling Raf with her. “Raf!” She called, already halfway to the fallen bot, “See if you can get Optimus’ comm.. I’ll try to wake him up.” Raf nodded, already connecting his computer to the massive mainframe. The connection was almost instantaneous. 

“Ratchet,” Optimus’ voice boomed over the connection, “The signal was a decoy but for what purpose we are unsure, we are on our way back.”

“Optimus!” Raf nearly shouted, “Its Raf.”

“Rafael?”

“Ratchet’s unconscious, what are your coordinates so I can bridge you back,” Numbers scrolled across the main screen as Optimus transmitted the needed data. 

“What is his status?” The Prime’s voice remained as steady as ever but his worry shown through.

“I think he hit his head. He’s bleeding, but otherwise looks okay.” Raf glanced over the railing at the limp cybertronian. 

“Do not touch the energon. We will be there in a moment.” As he spoke the ground bridge activated, spreading brilliant light about the room. The thunderous sound of Optimus’ engine echoed through the base, followed by three much quieter bots. The moment the largest of the bots was free of the ground bridge, he pulled himself up into his bipedal from. He was instantly at the medic’s side, Raf following closely above.

“Do you think he’s taking Synth-En again?” Rafael asked, keeping close to Optimus. Miko pulled herself up into Bulkhead’s hand as he beckoned her away from the prone bot.

“I doubt that, Rafael.” Optimus carefully rolled Ratchet to his back, mindful of the fracture in his helm. With care betraying of his size, the Prime clicked open a panel in Ratchet’s right forearm. The medical access cable uncoiled easily as Optimus attached it to his own systems. After a moment of silence, spent watching Ratchet’s flickering medical panel and Optimus’ half shuttered optics, Prime disconnected the access cable from his arm. Both bots and children stared expectantly, almost expecting the medic to come-to.

“It was only a simple processor glitch. I’ve over-ridden the problem and he should reboot on his own soon.” The Autobot slid his arms under Ratchet’s neck and knee joint, hoisting him to his chest. “Arcee,” He called, already turning to carry the limp medic to the medbay. “You’re in charge until I return.” She nodded.

The medbay was too silent. As gently as he could, Optimus placed his fallen companion on a medical berth. Sighing he pulled over a mobile monitor and began hooking the cables to Ratchet’s frame. At some point in the war, when they’re troops had dwindled to dangerously low levels, the last of the Autobot medics had taken it upon himself to teach the others standard first aid procedures. Optimus had received the most education, as he was the only one that knew of Ratchet’s looming illness. When all monitors were beeping in the appropriate cadences, Optimus pulled up a stool, crouching next to the limp bot. He took his hand in his own. 

“And so it begins,” He muttered, pressing the limp hand to his cheek. He sat still for a long while, listening to the beeping machines and relishing in the warmth of Ratchet’s hand against his check. His eldest friend was dying, and there was nothing he could do but watch. 

Eventually Optimus was forced to leave his companion’s side, knowing those outside would not only be anxious and worried but curious as well. Silently, he stole himself, standing as straight as his weary form would let him and moving his face plates into what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The look nearly dissipated when he was his fellow soldiers. Each was huddled about the human they guarded, their sides touching the plating of the bot next to them and their optics turned down. No words were shared amongst them despite the overwhelming silence. Even if they did not know the cause of their companion’s collapse it was clear each knew the gravity of the situation. 

The heavy fall of Prime’s tread startled the smallest of the cybertronians. Arcee glanced up, forlorn optics meeting her leader’s weary ones. She nudged both Bulkhead and Bumblebee who made to stand before he was waved back down.

“How is he?” Bulkhead asked, a hand at Miko’s back as she sat slumped in his lap.

“In stasis, but recovering.” The two nodded, Bumblebee glancing down in an almost guilty manner. “Until then, I believe I owe each of you an explanation, if you’re willing to listen.” In a rare display, Optimus joined them on the floor. He pushed air through his vents, attempting to calm himself. Prime had faced millennia of battles but informing his friends, his family, that one of their own was dying was much harder than dodging any cannon blast. 

His optics opened as the sound of the proximity alert sounded. Optimus pressed a hand to his finial, activating his internal comm.. Instantly an image of a rusted white car appeared on the main view screen. Optimus gave a relieved sigh. June. The main bay doors opened and the human drove in, exiting her car. 

“Jack called,” She explained, yanking her shirt down to its proper place, “Said Ratchet collapsed?” Optimus nodded.

“June,” He acknowledged, “Would you take the children and explain the situation to them. I wish to speak to my troops.” She nodded, beckoning them over. Placing her check to Bulkhead’s hand, Miko sighed before climbing off his lap, the other two following closely behind. Once they had rounded the corner and were out of view, Optimus turned back to the younger cybertronians.

“What do you know of CCG?” Bumblebee looked about, confused as the other two bots’ expressions grew grave.

Finally Arcee spoke, “Chronic Circuit Glitch. It’s an invasive genetic glitch that corrupts circuitry over stellar cycles.” Optimus nodded, encouraging her to continue. She gave a slight tremble, “There is no known cure and it is ultimately fatal.” Bumblebee whined, pushing his side further against Arcee’s. He was frightened; Ratchet was like a sire to the young orphan. The two wheeler simply patted the younger’s knee, understanding his concern. 

“Ratchet has known since his creators’ deaths that there was a possibility of him inheriting the glitch. It showed up two years ago.” Bulkhead glanced wearily down the hallway corridor, knowing Miko and the other children were receiving the same explanation from June. 

“Why didn’t he tell us?” The wrecker’s voice was soft despite the harsh tone.

“We did not wish to worry you. It was Ratchet’s decision to keep this from you until the information became necessary.” Bulkhead glowered, opening his mouth to protest before Optimus cut him off, “I understand your frustration, Bulkhead, but I ask that you do not guilt him for doing so, and to respect his decision. He is under a great amount of stress as it is.” They nodded, understanding. It was evident that each had an insurmountable number of questions but was unsure how to address them. The silence was overwhelming as each bot was caught in their own thoughts. Arcee bowed her head as Bumblebee wiggled his way further into her side, not knowing how else to cope. Optimus would not have been surprised if the scout decided to sit in Bulkhead’s lap. The wrecker, however, seemed occupied with clenching and unclenching his fists, his anger at the situation evident.

Finally the silence was broken as Bumblebee gave a clipped whirr, 'How long?'

Optimus was almost surprised at the normally tentative scout’s curtness. “We estimate a single stellar cycle before the damage becomes irreversible and roughly two before, if we do not find a cure, deactivation.” His bluntness was not meant to be harsh, but it was difficult to forget that the bots before him were soldiers, despite knowing they were so much more. 

“Only two stellar cycles?!” Arcee nearly jumped up from her spot on the floor, “I thought that CCG took millennia to fully develop, not four stellar cycles.”

Optimus nodded, seeming to sap the anger and frustration from the two wheeler. “Under normal circumstances this is correct. However, under the stress of war, a short supply of energon and age, the glitch has progressed faster than we’d have hoped. Also, Ratchet is convinced that the synthetic energon has furthered its progression.” All Arcee could do was nod. The incident with Synth-En was always heavy on Ratchet’s conscious, as he’d been known to drink in the past but had prided himself on both kicking the habit and steering clear of drug addictions. Now he could say neither, as the modified Energon had acted as a form of high-grade and was a highly addictive substance. He’d struggled to remain clean for many months after the initial dose, even going into withdrawal for a short while after his confrontation with Megatron and subsequent injury. There had been on night that Arcee along with Bumblebee had found the medic thrashing about on his berth, incohesive and glitching. The medi-bot had been tentative about testing the substance since.

“There anything we can do?” Bulkhead, ever the gentle mech, despite his menacing size, questioned. Optimus shook his head.

“There is little to do but wait, and hope.” Optimus addressed his troops solemnly. “Ratchet has been working on a cure for some time but has come up inconclusive, though June and Fowler have been aiding him. The best we can do for now is to allow him to work in peace and help him where he asks for it. However,” The Prime’s voice grew harsher, more demanding, “Ratchet is a proud mech, he will be insulted if we were to offer help when he has not asked for it, so unless he does or is in genuine distress, refrain.” All bots nodded fiercely. “If you have any further questions-“

“You’ll talk to me.” All optics turned, meeting the narrowed ones of the now conscious medic. In the silence left by his appearance Ratchet stalked over the huddled group, using any available surface for support. By the scrunching of his face plate, it was evident that his processor was throbbing and his movements displayed his weariness. However, none questioned the wisdom of being out of berth, for after years of being of the same team, all the Autobots were well accustomed to Ratchet’s famous temper tantrums. By the time the Autobots had managed to pull the worried looks from their faces, Ratchet had limped his way over to join them on the floor, using the wall as support. His joints creaked worryingly as he sat, his legs finally giving, forcing him to fall the rest of the way to the floor. The resounding crash was deafening, but the silence that followed was just as painful. No one dared speak and after a moment Ratchet seemed to grow annoyed.

“Well?!” He boomed, his voice filled with static, “I know you’re all just itching to ask me if I’m okay, so just get it over with.” The others were almost taken aback by his harsh tone.

“Ratchet,” Bulkhead breathed, the distress in his voice clear. Instantly, the medic’s shoulders sagged, his expression softening. 

“Sorry,” He mumbled. Arcee paced a small hand on his shoulder. He simply met her optics and nodded, understanding her unspoken comfort. With a grunt, Ratchet stretched his legs, popping joints and cables. “If I’m going to feel like this constantly,” he joked lightly, “I’m going to need a cane.”

“I can make you one,” Bulkhead piped up, obviously eager to be able to help. Ratchet couldn’t help but laugh, his mirth surprising his companions.

“That would be kind of you, Bulk.”

Bumblebee whirred almost happily, 'Anything else we can do?' Ratchet nodded, holding out a hand to the young bot.

“You can help me up. Don’t know why I sat down in the first place,” He grumbled, “I need to go speak to the humans.” The scout hopped up, pulling Ratchet with him. Making his way across the room, the medic shook his helper off to stand on his own. He waved absently over his shoulder as he disappeared about the corner. The halls seemed longer than normal when his legs refused to cooperate, suddenly making him wish he had not shooed off his support. The door to the side room that Ratchet knew the humans to be in was open but a crack. Pushing it open silently he simply observed for a moment. The situation was a familiar one. The children were huddled about June, eyes turned down as they listened to her grave prognosis. Rafael was grasping Miko’s hand like it was his only lifeline while Jack leaned into her as she wormed her way further into his lap. It was in moments like this that Ratchet remembered that these beings before him were mere children, hardly infants in comparison to his age. June looked up, feeling his gaze upon her, and caught his optic. She smiled at his unsure expression, beckoning him in. The children brightened as well, following June’s gaze to the limping mech. 

“How are you feeling?” June asked before Ratchet had even a chance to sit.

“Hmmm,” Ratchet grumbled, crashing to the floor once again, “My processor feels like scrap and my knees and pedes have seen better days.” He bent his knees allowing them to creak as if to make a point. “But a good recharge and I’ll be alright.”

Though the statement did not help her companions, Miko’s mood brightened. She shook off Raf’s hand and sat up. “You goin’ to find a cure, Doc-Bot?” Ratchet couldn’t help but grin.

“June and I are doing our best.” June nodded, smiling up at her cybertronian companion.

“Are you going to get all twitch and wiggly?” Miko shouted up.

“Miko!” Jack slapped her shoulder chastisingly.

“What? I’m just asking.” Ratchet waved their concerns for his emotions away, having expected the Japanese girl’s brashness. 

“No, no, it’s alright to be curious,” Miko stuck her tongue out at Jack, “And in a way, Miko, yes. My motor functions will decrease and I will lose partial control over my movements. So in a way, I will be ‘twitchy’, though I don’t know about wiggly.” He chuckled, a rare event.

“June said memory loss is a symptom,” Raf voiced, regaining some confidence, “Are you just going to forget us?” Ratchet considered his words carefully.

“My Sire could hardly remember his own name by the time he deactivated,” The children’s gaze fell, “My carrier, however, was not effected so. I’ve already had one seizure, which suggests I’ve received mostly my mother’s side of the glitch. So, if my theory holds out, no, I won’t be forgetting you fleshlings any time soon.”

The children’s eyes widened. “Seizure,” Jack chocked out. Ratchet raised an optic brow at June.

“I hadn’t gotten there yet,” June said sheepishly, giving him a small grin. Ratchet shook his head, having assumed that June has finished explaining the glitch.

“Ah,” He breathed, “Oops.” He cycled air to clear some of the sensory glitches in his chest plates. The air was cooling and pleasant on his too hot plating. “There is no human equivalent for CCG,” Ratchet began, “Though the closest ailment would be a brain tumor. The glitch slowly expands in coding and corrupts the circuitry around it.”

Miko nodded, yet again holding Raf’s hand, “That’s what June said it did.”

“Tell me what you do know.” Ratchet folded his hands in his lap, patiently listening. It was rare that he was willing to sit and discuss personal matters but he forced himself to enter the medic’s mindset he’d grown accustom to throughout his career. This Ratchet was temperamental yet gentler and more tolerant. He was willing to answer questions and take the time to make sure his patients understood everything they needed to. Only this time he was explaining to his patient’s family instead. 

“You have CCG, or Chronic Circuit Glitch.” Raf began, fiddling with his hands, “It’s a genetic disorder that corrupts the circuitry in the processor and body causing system failures, circuitry miss fire, memory loss and pain. Also there is no cure.”

“Yet,” Miko added helpfully. Ratchet nodded.

“But Ratch,” The youngest human gazed up apprehensively at the towering bot, “If untreated, brain tumors are fatal,” He allowed his question to hang, as if finishing would make the prognosis final.

“As is CCG,” Ratchet sighed. Despite his distaste for everything Miko, the Autobot found he had an exceptionally difficult time watching tears well up in her gaze. It was obvious none had assumed this, instead choosing to believe the glitch was a lifelong nuance. 

“You aren’t going to die on us, are you, Doc-Bot?”

“I have no intention of deactivating just yet,” Ratchet forced a smile to be as sincere as his old faceplate could manage. “And even without a cure I have a few years yet.”

“Years?!” Miko almost shouted, “I thought this thing was a swift death. You know, like a few months, not years.”

“Miko,” Ratchet had to work to keep the condescension out of his voice, “I am over ten million earth years old, older than your entire race. Two years is an insignificant amount of time.”

“Dang, Ratch,” It was Jack’s turn to tease, “I knew you were old but that’s ancient.” The medic simply glared as all three children laughed. Even June could not keep back a snicker. As the humor passed, the atmosphere settled back into silence, the gravity of the situation falling like dust upon the worn bunker floor. Tired and stiff, the medic decided it was time to end the conversation.

“Miko,” His tone was mirthful and almost taunting, “Bulkhead has assigned himself the duty of making me a cane and I’m sure he would love your help.” Miko’s face stretched into an ear to ear grin. The girl leapt to her feet, leaning forward on the balls of her feet and stretching her arms back as she commonly did. 

“Bulk and I are going to make you the best old man walking stick ever.” Ratchet only smiled ever so slightly, his optics betraying his amusement and weariness. Miko began to run off in search of her guardian but halted at the door. Walking silently back she gazed up at the medic before wrapping her small arms about the base of his pede. Ratchet startled, not expecting the display of affection. Normally he would have shaken the human off but he could not find the malice to do so. Instead he simply allowed her to be, watching in bewilderment as the other two children joined her. 

Finally, Miko glanced up, backing away from the warm metal plating of his pede. Her eyes were more serious than he’d ever seen them. “You work hard on that cure, okay? The bots still need a medic.” Ratchet nodded, his head moving automatically. Miko wasn’t satisfied. “Okay?” She asked again, more forcefully. “Promise?” 

Ratchet stared for a moment, glancing at June who simply sat smiling before returning Miko’s fierce gaze, though in a more mocking manner. “Okay,” He breathed, “I promise.” With that, all three children raced out of the room to join their companions in the main bay, leaving Ratchet with June.

The nurse smiled sweetly at her Autobot friend, relieved that his recent depression seemed to have vanished for the moment. “They’re very worried,” Ratchet nodded, humming in acknowledgment, “They really like you. You do understand that, Right?” The bot allowed a smile to creep onto his face plates.

“I too am fond of them,” He admitted, “No matter how annoying they may be.” His companion chuckled. “June?”

“Hmm?”

“Could you fetch Optimus for me?” The nurse chocked her head.

“Sure. Is something wrong?” The bot shook his head at her inquiry.

“I’m not sure I can get up.”

-

Miko sat, her legs crossed under her, watching Bulkhead bend and twist scraps of metal, his large hands strangely delicate in their manipulations. What was once simple scrap metal now resembled a perfectly crafted Autobot sized cane, the top of it curved over and the base flared to add support. The seams where sheets overlaid one and other had been smoothed down. The whole thing was elegant, really, coated in a thin layer of welding copper which glimmered different colors in the light. The strip of red copper winding about the body of the cane, forming intricate designs had been Miko’s idea, one she was rather proud of. Bulkhead intended to paint the base of it white in order to bring out the beauty of the undulating tones of red and yellow copper.

Taking up the blow torch at his side, the bot began coating the metal in flames, lightening the tint of the copper and soldering welds, while his companion fashioned another delicate piece of the design together. Miko had never been very proficient at metal working but after two weeks of relentless practice, determined to create a master piece, she considered herself fairly skilled. Both she and the Autobot found some form of comfort in the monotonous work. It was an enjoyable change from her normally overactive life. And as an added bonus, it kept her out of the medic’s plating. He’d certainly found it a pleasant change.

Bulkhead turned the glimmering metal about in his hands, admiring his work. “Doc’s going to love this.” He was very proud of himself, feeling useful for once.

“How’s it coming?” Bulkhead shrieked at the voice, quickly shoving his creation under his chest plates to hide it. Arcee strode over, placing a hand on the wrecker’s shoulder, smirking.

“Shift down a few gears, Bulk,” She teased, “He’s still recharging.”

“That fall got him good, huh?” The two-wheeler nodded, a wry smile stretching across her features.

“It’s just a good thing Optimus caught him before he could hit his head again.” Arcee trotted over to the ground bridge controls as she spoke, punching in a few quadrants.

“Picking up Jack?” Bulkhead asked. She nodded, “Mind if the kid and I come with?” She shrugged, chucking as Bulk practically leapt from his place on the floor, shoving the cane into his subspace and transforming for the child rushing to his side. The ground bridge opened with a flash as the two cybertronians rode though. 

The late fall air was chilled and moist from the recent rain, a rarity in Jasper. The road was not of the ideal driving condition but both bots didn’t seem to mind, simply happy to be out of base. Miko was enjoying the drive as well, curling up in the passenger’s seat and watching the desert fly by. Jack was waiting outside his house when the Autobots approached. June stood next to him.

She rubbed the back of her neck, “I was hoping to get a ride. My car’s in the shop.” Bulkhead opened a rear door. 

“I’ve got the room,” he offered, “hop in.” She readjusted the data pads in her arms as she climbed in. “Those for Ratch?” He asked.

“Yes. I haven’t seen him in a few days so I’ve got a lot of questions piled up.” She smiled. She and the doctor had grown very close due to their frequent tutoring sessions. “How’s he been?”

“Eh, not so great,” Bulk hummed his dash lighting up as he spoke, “He had another seizure yesterday. He’s still sleeping, so you’ll have to wait to talk to him.” June’s face fell.

“It was scary, June,” Miko leaned over the back of the seat. “He said he needed to sit down but fell before he could reach a chair. Optimus caught him but he started shaking and made this awful noise like your dialup internet does.”

“That was his voice box glitching, Miko.” Bulkhead interjected.

“Yeah, yeah. You said that already,” Miko waved the comment off, “It was still freaky.” June turned her gaze down, wanting to comfort the child but not knowing what to say. Arcee’s voice over the intercom saver her from having to.

“We should probably get him up when we get back, Bulk. Sick or not, he’s not a fan of sleeping in.” Bulk hummed in agreement as the doors to the base slid open, allowing then entrance. Arcee left Jack with the wrecker and strode towards the medic’s living quarters. She knocked lightly, simply to check that he wasn’t already up. He’d never been fond of people simply coming into his room. When she gained no response she eased the silo door open. Ratchet was laid flat on his berth, one arm slung across his chest and the other hanging off the edge of the berth. Arcee placed a small hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Ratch,” She whispered, “Time to get up.” He grumbled, shifting on the berth. “How you feeling?” She asked, trying to keep him from falling back into recharge.

“Head hurts,” He moaned, making no move to sit up.

“Are you wanting to recharge some more?” Ratchet shook his head.

“Just give me a moment.” He pulled himself up, using Arcee’s shoulder for support. “My processor’s just foggy.” The two wheeler simply nodded, sitting on the berth next to the mech. He swung his legs over the edge to join her. Arcee grabbed his hand when he started rubbing at it. 

“Your hands hurting again?” She asked, grinning when he leaned into her touch. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” He sighed.

“June’s here,” Ratchet hummed, “She’s got a mountain of datapads for you. “

“Ugh. I don’t think I’ll be able to get through much today. My optics feel like they’re being smashed into my helm.” 

“Those seizures are hard on you, huh?” Ratchet bowed his head, turning his gaze away. Arcee placed a hand on his knee. “You do know you can talk to me, to all of us. We only want to help you.” Ratchet brushed off her hand with a little more force than he’d intended. She made to retaliate when the berthroom door slid open, revealing the brightly colored Prime. He moved to join his companions, smiling. 

“Arcee,” He spoke, his tone that of a commander, not a friend, “An energon trace has reappeared, we’re rolling out.” She nodded as Optimus turned to Ratchet, “June is here and manning the bridge. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.” Ratchet snorted. 

“I have a head ache, not an amputated limb. I’ll be fine.” Optimus brushed the snarky remark off. 

“Very well,” He sighed, “Let’s go, Arcee.” With a nod to Ratchet, she followed her Prime out the door. Ratchet sighed, slumping until his helm was in his hands. The pity was unbearable. Understandable, yes, but frustrating. His entire life he’d anticipated this, dreading it. Now that he was in the middle of his worst nightmare it wasn’t the disease that scared him most. The constant ache, the seizures, the shaking, loss of mobility, all of it was torture but bearable. The looks his comrades, his friends, gave him, however, burned. 

A knock on the door frame ripped Ratchet from his thoughts. June smiled at his expression, recognizing the self pity there. 

“You okay?” She asked her voice soft.

“Fine,” he spat, stepping over her with a limp.

“Ratchet?” She turned, reaching for the bot as he limped away. “Ratchet?!” He paused, stomping a pede down.

“Stop,” His voice was dangerously low, “Just stop. I am so sick of your slagging pity. Frag off.” June could only stare. She’d faced a grumpy Ratchet before, heard his swear, and watched him throw tools about his medbay but he’d never directed his anger towards her. The two simply stared at each other for a long klick, until Ratchet finally closed his optics, making to turn. In that moment of silence, disturbed only by the ringing of the mech’s engine, an alarm pierced the air. 

“Scrap,” Ratchet cursed, bolting down the halls with June on his heels. “Scrap,” he repeated as he studied the screen. A message, flaring red, flashed on the screen. He jammed the comm. link button into the consol. 

“Optimus!” He barked, “What’s your status?”

“Bumblebee is down, Ratchet,” The prime’s voice was urgent and filled with static from the unstable audio feed, “We’ve managed to drive the Decipticons back but he’s taken a hit to the chassis.” By now the children had gathered at the medic’s feet.

“Is he conscious?” It was evident that Ratchet was worried.

“Yes, but barely and losing energon quickly.”

“Do not move him,” Ratchet was already moving to collect his medical kit and activate the ground bridge. His limp had all but disappeared in his rush. “I’m on my way.” Whatever response Optimus had was lost to the sound of the ground bridge activating.

-

The battle field had gone quiet. The enemy had retreated and the three remaining Autobots were crowded about their fallen comrade. Bulkhead was hunched over a moaning Bumblebee, hands pressed to the gaping hole just left of his spark chamber, in an attempt to slow the flow of leaking energon. Every head turned as a flare of light signified an opening ground bridge. Ratchet rushed through, med kit in hand. 

“Move,” He shouted, pushing the wrecker to the side as he dropped to his knees. After a quick examination he began ripping tools from his kit. “The blast hit directly next to his spark chamber, and ruptured a main energon line. If I don’t get this sealed up, he’ll bleed to death in minutes. But luckily that seems to be the only real damage.”

“We have your back, Ratchet.” Optimus called, gun arm raised, “Do what you can.”

“Bulk,” Ratchet called, beckoning him over, “Press down here,” he instructed, indicating a point just above the wound. Bumblebee whined as pressure was applied to his chest. Ratchet shifted his right hand and lower arm into a welding torch, directing the flame to either side of the severed line. Eventually the flow of energon slowed as the line melded back together. The injured scout hissed when the heat seared his plating unintentionally. 

“Frag!” Ratchet cursed, “These hands are too fragging unsteady.”

“Do you need help, Ratchet?” Optimus called.

“No, slag it! Just keep your weapons active and let me do my job.” A lens slid into place over Ratchet’s left optic, allowing him to see the delicate circuitry surrounding Bumblebee’s spark chamber. Most of it was badly frayed, but nothing life threatening. Just as Ratchet finished connecting another transistor a blast shook the earth.

“Incoming!” Arcee called as jet after jet made contact with the ground.

“Go help,” Ratchet instructed Bulkhead, “I can handle it from here.” Bulk nodded, storming to his companion’s aid. Ratchet was used to working in the heat of battle due to his vorn as a field medic. He had to admit that is was distracting though. Bumblebee’s optics flickered as he let out a static filled wail.

“Stay with me, Bee,” Ratchet soothed, “I’m almost done.” The scout managed a nod.

Suddenly pain seared through Ratchet’s back, causing him to arch back as fire spread across his back strut. Another shot collided with his shoulder, sending the medic toppling to the side. As his vision faded to black an all too familiar cackling rang in his audios.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot that I hadn't updated this story on AO3 to the point that I had on Fanfiction.  
> Thanks for the reminder, I will get on that. Expect a lot more in the next few days.

It was quiet; that much he knew. The rest was fuzzy. Voices flittered on the edge of his hearing. Slowly his sensory net came back online. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped his vocals as his back and shoulder flared with pain. The voices stopped. The silence that remained was unnerving. Eventually the medic pried his optics open. The light situated above him was blinding but it was not that which caused the medic’s spark to freeze. To his left a flash of red caught his attention. 

“Looks like our patient is awake, Breakdown,” The voice was sickly sweet, “Why don’t you fetch Megatron.” It was amazing how a simple name could instill so much fear in one’s spark. With a grunt, Ratchet turned his helm to the side, his teal optics meeting blood red ones. Knock Out smiled, an almost endearing expression crossing his features.

“We saved your life, medic,” He cooed, “Seems like Megatron has something special planned for you.” Ratchet pulled his head off the berth and spat. Knock Out hissed, whipping energon from his optics, evidently peeved. “Fine,” he huffed, “I was going to give you some pain killers but it seems as if you don’t want my help.”

“Why save me?” Ratchet croaked, pain and fatigue filling his voice with static, “I’m not telling you anything.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Knock Out returned to the computer console as the medbay doors slid open. The hulking form of Megatron appeared in the door frame. “Lord Megatron,” Ratchet was tempted to purge from the obvious groveling in his tone, “He’s aware enough but won’t survive any form of further harm, I’d take it easy if I were you.” Megatron wasn’t stupid, he nodded. His heavy footfalls sent pain pulsating through Ratchet’s processor. The Decepticon leaned over the Autobot medic, his vents sending warm air over his frame. Ratchet shivered. His venomous glare, however, never wavered.

“Hello, Ratchet,” Megatron’s voice stung his audios, “You’ve looked better.”

“I knew Decepticons were low, Megatron,” Ratchet hissed, “But shooting a medic while their working?”

“Mmm, yes. I’ll be having a chat with Starscream about that one.” Knock Out hummed, his back still turned.

“The circumstances were not ideal,” Megatron used a clawed hand to pry at his denta, obviously concerned little with the immortality of the situation, “But you are here, are you not?” Ratchet heaved himself into a sitting position, hissing at the pain in his backstruts.

“Enlighten me, Megatron,” He grunted, holding his singed shoulder, “Why am I here?”

“I’m sure you recall the steroidal compound you left us with upon our previous meeting? Its chemical makeup is quiet interesting.” The Decepticon leader smirked, the scars on his jaw exaggerating the frightening expression. The ‘con medic appeared at his leader’s side. 

“Unfortunately, we’ve been having trouble replicating it.”

“You don’t want to,” Ratchet cut him off. Megatron’s claws snaked about the Autobot’s neck. He clawed desperately at the hands crushing his intakes.

“Do not presume to know what we wish, Autobot.” His grip slacked somewhat when Knock Out tapped at his arm warningly. He wanted Ratchet alive; that much was painfully clear.

“The formula causes drastic personality shifts,” Ratchet rasped out, “disloyalty, a fierce temper, and an unimaginable ego. Synth-En is not something you want to give your troops.”

“I will be the judge of that,” Megatron dropped the now gasping Autobot, sending his crashing to the floor. “Get him in working order, Knock Out. I want that formula.” Suddenly a high pitched screech caught both Decepticon’s attention. Still upon the floor lay the Autobot medic, his body curled as tight as possible, twitching and writhing. His optics flickered on and off, glowing sickly pale. From his mouth rose an alternating tone so wracked with pain that even Knock Out felt a sting of pity.

“Knock Out,” Megatron barked, “What is happening?” Already the grounder was at the medic’s side, holding his head up to keep him from knocking it against the berth behind him.

“He’s having a seizure. Help me hold him still.” Megatron strode calmly over, gripping the medic’s wrists to prevent him from clawing at his own chest plates. “I don’t understand what caused this. He has substantial damage but no head injuries. He shouldn't be glitching.” The ‘con grunted as Ratchet’s knee made contact with his stomach. “If this slagger scratches my finish-“ 

“How do we stop it,” Megatron snapped cutting off Knock Out’s vain rant before it could start.

“We don’t. We have to wait until it subsides and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.” Megatron pinned the Autobot’s feet underneath him as he began to kick out. The sound of the violent struggle and glitching keen filled the medbay. Slowly the Autobot under them quieted, his movements growing weaker and slower. And just as suddenly as the seizure started, the bot lurched forward and gripped his helm.

“Frag it!” Knock Out swore, reeling back, “You’ve scratched my paint.” Ratchet groaned, struggling to stay conscious.

“Don’t care about your slagging paint job,” The medic ground out, his denta clenched. Knock Out huffed. Finally releasing Ratchet’s legs, Megatron stood, towering over the two quarreling medics. 

“Knock Out,” he barked, “Figure out the issue. I want a full report by the on-cycle.” He nodded while attempting to heave Ratchet into a berth. The Autobot simply allowed himself to lay limp in the other’s arms.

Once the door slid shut behind the Decepticon leader, Knock Out began to gather examination tools. “Don’t bother,” Ratchet mumbled, “I know what’s wrong and there’s nothing you can do.” Knock Out stopped, his back still to the other.

“The chemical enhancements?” He asked, almost as if he knew the answer. 

“That furthered it,” Ratchet groaned, rolling his helm to the side, “but no, not quiet. Though, the compound does have an extremely addictive component to it.” Knock Out turned, a sedative in one hand and a cube of energon in the other. He handed the cube to Ratchet, who pulled himself up and began to sip at it. When the first drop hit his glossa, he gagged, making a wry face.

“Highly diluted,” Knock Out explained, “tastes horrible and beats on your systems but energon is energon. Now care to enlighten me to what is the issue here?”

“CCG.” Knock Out’s gaze fell. “I’m the leading expert in the field. Trust me; there is nothing you can do.”

“Chronic Circuit Glitch,” Knock Out scratched his chin, “I haven’t heard of that one since the academy.” Ratchet huffed, taking another sip of his diluted energon. “Ironic, isn’t it? The famous Autobot medic can’t save himself.” The mech glanced away, his gaze falling to the energon stains on the floor. “They used to say you performed miracles, you know. I had a friend in med school - don’t know what happened to him - that wanted nothing more than to study under you.” Ratchet hummed. What had spurred this kindness the Decepticon seemed to be showing him?

“Who?” Knock Out snapped his fingers, staring at the ceiling, attempting to bring the name to mind. “First Aid?”

“That was him!” Knock Out started, surprised that the other had beat him to it. “You knew him?” Ratchet nodded.

“He was my apprentice,” The white mech explained, “I’m honestly surprised that shy little First Aid could ever be a friend of yours.”

“Humph,” The Decepticon muttered before sighing, “I’m a very different mech than I used to be.” 

“You still are.” Knock Out glanced up, confused. Ratchet set his half finished energon at the edge of the berth before continuing.  
“You’re very different when one of your superiors isn’t about. Calmer, kinder.” Knock Out huffed, taking the energon and placing the needle containing a mild sedative into Ratchet’s forearm. The Autobot was already drifting off before Knock Out removed the needle from his lines. 

“That’s what you think,” he scoffed, turning to undoubtedly buff out the scratches he’d acquired from Ratchet.

“It’s what I know,” Ratchet slurred before his eyes finally drifted shut.

-

Optimus was moving before he ever consciously comprehended the shot resonating through the canyon. When his mind finally caught up, Ratchet was already gone. The seeker had snatched him up before anyone could think to react. An anguished cry ripped from Optimus’ throat. He whirled about, his cannon firing savagely at any vehicon unlucky enough to catch his gaze. Seeing their comrades falling so quickly, the others turned to flee. Remembering his downed soldier, Optimus signaled for a ground bridge. The others rushed through the bridge, Bulkhead carrying Bumblebee and Arcee following behind. 

The moment the base materialized, Optimus was shoving past the others, lunging for the control console. He stared for a long while at the blinking screen, waiting desperately for Ratchet’s signal to appear. None did. A hand landed on his arm.

“Optimus,” Arcee mumbled.

“He’s gone,” The prime bowed his head. 

“We’ll get him back,” Arcee’s attempts to confront her Prime were drowned out by her own clicking voice box. “We won’t let them hurt him.” Optimus nodded, pulling himself back up from his hunched position with a sigh. Though difficult to pull himself back together, it was unfair of him to thrust his worries upon Arcee’s slim shoulders, despite her strength. 

The rest of the day was a blur, spent watching a recovering Bumblebee recharge and the still blinking monitor scanning for Ratchet’s signal. Somewhere around midnight, June took the children home but promised to return to keep monitoring Bumblebee. She’d learned enough of Cybertronian biology to act as a substitute medic when needed, and had assured Prime that his scout would be back to active duty within a few days. The scout drifted in and out of recharge, frequently asking about Ratchet, distraught that it was not the red and white mech tending to his injuries. Only once the base was quiet, every other bot in recharge and the humans safely home, did Optimus allow his shoulders to sag.

“Ratchet,” he mumbled into silence, “where are you?” His head dropped into his hands, elbows resting on his knees. Emptiness gripped his spark, as his processor conjured up images of the weak and ill mech strapped to a berth, his plating dented and broken as Megatron loomed over him. Optimus ripped his optics open, attempting to erase the images plaguing his mind. His tanks churned with panic, threatening to purge. His mask snapped open, as the Prime reached for a nearby bucket. He heaved, raw energon spilling into the bucket. More gruesome images flashed in front of his optics. Once the burning energon was drained from his systems, Optimus spit, trying to clear the foul taste from his mouth. Footsteps caught his attention. 

“You need to talk about this,” June’s gaze was soft but her tone, that of a nurse. “You’re making yourself sick by bottling it all up.” Optimus shook his head, pushing the foul smelling energon away with his pede. 

“I need to be strong for the others.”

June placed a hand on his calf, “I don’t see anyone else here right now. And you don’t need to be anything for me.” Prime sighed, considering her offer.

“He’s so sick.” His head returned to his hands, attempting to hide the coolant threatening to pool in his optics. 

“He’s a strong mech, he’ll be alright,” June thanked Primus that she was talented at hiding the worry in her voice.

“I just wish I could do more,” His fist clenched, “I should have known it was a trap, the way they retreated the moment Bumblebee was down.”

“No one saw it,” The bot was determined to beat himself into the ground. He huffed at her comment.

“I am Prime. They rely on my ability to lead and I haven’t been doing a very good job of it lately.”

“You’re just in an arguing mood tonight, aren’t you?” Prime nodded into his hands. “Then stop, and listen to me. You are the best leader any of these bots could ask for, Ratchet especially. He cares for you greatly and would not want you beating yourself up over this. You’re not helping anything by blaming yourself. So stop. Do whatever it is you need to get over this guilt. Whether it’s to cry and scream or going for a drive. Understood?” Prime was silent. A grin stretched across his features. “What?” June snapped, hands on her hips.

“You remind me of a second in command I once had. I never met a bot better at lecturing. He could make a full grown mech feel like a sparkling.” June chuckled. 

“We’ll, I’m glad you had someone to keep you in line.” Optimus closed his optics, bowing his head again.

“Ratchet has always been the one to keep me grounded, even before the war.” Coolant threatened to run down his faceplates again. His vents and his frame shuttered. June placed a calming hand on his pede. He was struggling to remain strong. Even when he didn’t have to be Prime the internal battle remained. June decided it was time to try and distract the mech.

“How did you and Ratchet meet, anyway?” Optimus sighed, a smile working its way back onto his features. 

“I was not always a Prime,” He began, “That was an honor I came into later in life. Before the war I was a data clerk, a librarian, by the name of Orion Pax.” 

-

“Orion!” The shout rang soundly about the archive hall. The red and blue bot glanced up from the console he was working at. A higher ranked archivist loomed over him. Small but extremely sturdy, Shortstock was hardly an intimidating mech. He could, however, glare the living daylights out of a bot. 

“Yes, sir?” Orion made to stand but was waved back down.

“You organized the medical section of the archives, correct?” Shortstock tilted his head to the side as he so often did when asking questions of those under him. Optimus shook his head.

“No, sir,” he responded politely, “I’m in charge of the political and demographic archives. I haven’t even accessed the medical texts in vorn.” The other scratched at his chin.

“No matter,” he waved a hand as if to brush off the conflict, “A professor from the medical university is supposed to come in later today. He requested assistance. You’re assigned to help him. Also, make sure the less touched sections of the library are well organized.” Orion nodded, hefting his large form from his chair and setting off in the direction of the medical archives. To his surprise, the area was not in the pristine state that the rest of the area was in. Towers of data pads leaned against the shelves and a few were strewn out across the floor. Orion sighed, crouching down to gather up an armful of data pads. He set them on a nearby table and went back for another load. Once he’d gathered up all the stray books, he began alphabetizing them. He was tempted to sit down with a few and simply read. The subjects were interesting, covering from the treatment of simple wire fray to terminal illnesses and mental disabilities.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Orion’s head snapped up, meeting piercing teal optics. The white and red mech’s gaze bore into his own fiercely. Orion’s processor stalled. “I can’t leave for five kliks to get a cube of energon without some blunt plated archivist messing with my texts.” He placed his free hand on his hip, expression aiming to belittle.

“Apologies,” Orion mumbled, bowing his head, “I was not aware that anyone was still using this data.”

“Well, now you are,” He snapped, taking a sip of his energon. His vents heaved as he grabbed up a data pad, making a show of scanning the text. “Now that you’re here, maybe you can help me find something actually useful. I’ve been reading slag like this since I could read.” With a huff he set the pad down and picked up a second on.

“You’ve been looking in the basic medical section,” Orion pointed across the rows of the shelves. “The advanced text is in the far section.” The white mech huffed, tapping the screen to scroll through the data. Orion frowned, he was used to rude mechs but he honestly couldn’t picture this one as a medic, given what he’d seen of his manner. Perhaps they’d gotten off on the wrong pede. The archivist apprentice held out a hand. “I am Orion Pax. You must be the medical professor I’ve been assigned to.” The other stared at his hand for a moment, expressionless, until he placed his data pad upon the table and took up the gesture.

“Ratchet,” He introduced. His grip was firm yet steady, and somehow reassuring. Orion smiled at his almost bored expression. 

“If you need anything, Ratchet,” The archivist offered, “I’ll be at my desk.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m giving this chapter a slight Trigger Warning. There are mentions of off-screen rape.  
> Well slag. I just now realized that Starscream left the Decepticons two episodes before “Stronger, Faster”. We’re just going to ignore that…
> 
> Again: Trigger Warning for this chapter!!

The last two days had been nightmarish. As a fellow medic, Knock Out had done what he could to ease the pain and prevent further seizures but there was only so much that could be done under a tyrant’s gaze. After their first awkward conversation, the two had spoken little. Most talk was limited to that of synthetic energon, or convincing Ratchet to work on the Synth-En, that is. Ratchet had finally agreed to work with Knock Out, but only once the other had threatened him in various ways.

“Hand me that laser scalpel. 2A.” Ratchet handed over the requested tool, examining how the other’s hands were buried in an eradicon’s chest. The drone groaned. Knock Out had explained, to Ratchet’s horror, that supplies were not to be wasted on simple soldiers, via Meagtron’s orders, despite the gleam of disgust in his own optics. 

“It’ll scar if you weld it that way,” Ratchet observed. 

“And it will get done faster,” Knock Out countered. His loyalty to Megatron was shaky at best but his own vanity kept him following orders; several scratches to his paint as punishment the previous day had left him severally shaken and upset. 

“No sympathy for a drone’s paint job?” Ratchet handed the Decepticon another tool as he stuck out a clawed hand for one.

“It disgusts me, but I value my own life enough to not bother making them perfect. You’d be wise to do the same.” With a huff, Ratchet snatched the scalpel from the other. He shoved him aside, making sure to be careful about Knock Out’s precious paint, and began to weld the wound himself. The mech beneath him startled before relaxing into the breth. Within seconds the tear in the metal was closed and smoothed out.

“Least you can do is finish quickly,” He paced the tools on the tray next to him and whipped his energon stained hands on a cloth. Knock Out examined the weld, his eyebrows rising in amazement. 

“You’re still shaking,” He observed, “How did you do that so smoothly?” He skimmed his thumb along the seam before running a sanitizing agent down it.

“I worked as a field medic,” Ratchet snapped, as if that was all the explanation the situation needed. Knock Out shrugged, moving to clean up. The moment Knock Out turned his back, Ratchet extended a small needle from his index finger inserting it into the eradicon’s main energon line and pumping in some of his own supply of pain killer. The drone relaxed, his optics shuttering. Ratchet allowed himself to slump on his stool as the ‘con fell into recharge. 

“Your shoulder must not be hurting much for you to give that stuff to drones.” Ratchet jumped as the other spoke, startled by his ability to know what the Autobot was doing behind his back. As the white medic opened his mouth to retaliate the medbay intercom crackled to life. Both bots looked questioningly at the ceiling. 

“Knock Out,” Megatron’s voice boomed, “Please fetch Starscream from his quarters; he could use some touching up.” The medic placed down a newly polished tool, no longer paying a great amount of attention.

“I am slightly preoccupied at the moment, My Lord,” Knock Out hummed, “But I will send Breakdown to get him.”

“Very well,” Megatron growled, obviously unhappy with even the slightest change in plans. The comm. link clicked off. Ratchet glanced questioningly at Knock Out as he touched his finial to contact his partner. 

“You’ll see,” was his only response. Using the aid of an overhead machine, Ratchet guided the limp eradicon from the operation table, placing him on a berth in the back of the room. Walking had become difficult, but still possible. How he wished for that cane now. With a grunt, he fell back into his chair. 

With a hiss, the medbay doors slid open, revealing a limping Starscream, an arm slung over Breakdown’s massive shoulder. The ‘con practically threw the seeker on the berth before stomping out. Ratchet did not miss the passing glace of frustration and loneliness the former wrecker threw his partner. Ratchet rolled his optics and turned to examine the seeker.

Being a trained medic had its disadvantages at points. With just a glance, the old bot could tell exactly how most injuries were acquired. Ratchet gagged. Starscream’s were not battle won. He was covered from helm to pede in scratches and dents, some leaking energon while others simply sent off small sparks of electricity. The main denting was concentrated about his hips and thighs. The seeker’s helm piece was bent to the point of nearly snapping off, and his faceplates were stained with coolant. Ratchet’s gaze drifted to the mech’s thighs. His legs were clamped shut but dried transfluid still clung to the surrounding metal.

Ratchet glanced at Knock Out who only waved him on. The Autobot nodded back, grabbing up a clean cloth to whip the seeker down with.

“Do not touch me, Autobot,” Starscream hissed as a hand was placed on his thigh.

“I’m only helping,” Ratchet mumbled, frowning as his hand was batted away.

“You’re dirtying me.” Starscream groaned as he attempted to pull himself further up the berth. Ratchet huffed and rolled his chair closer.

“You obviously don’t mind dirtying yourself, Decepticon.” Starscream rammed a bleeding fist into the metal of the berth, denting it. 

“How dare you! You think I want this?” He gestured to his beaten form. The metal of his code piece was bent upwards, forcing it to remain open. Ratchet sighed, realizing his mistake.

“You mean…” He began but cut himself off before the words could do any further damage. It was less of a question but his voice hitched enough to make it appear as one. The seeker turned his head away, attempting to hide it in the berth. Ratchet’s expression hardened. He swung his stool around to the side of the berth.

“Open,” He commanded, tapping at the seeker’s chest plate. The other’s vents hitched. No plating moved. “Open,” Ratchet repeated, “Don’t make me force a medical override.” Reluctantly, his chest plates slid open; white light bathed the room as his pulsing spark was exposed. The medic had to fight to keep from gasping. Blackened tendrils of energy swirled about the faintly pulsing spark, remains of forced merges. The once pure white spark was nearly coated in the foul taint.

“I’m putting you under,” Ratchet mumbled, reaching for a sedative. Knock Out turned from his place hunched over the computer. “He needs surgery,” The Autobot answered before the question could be asked. Starscream twitched in alarm, attempting to fight the sedatives invading his systems. Ratchet simply ignored him, grabbing tools from a nearby tray. 

“What for?” Knock Out snapped, grabbing Ratchet’s arm. The white mech ripped it away.

“You haven’t checked his chamber, have you?” Ratchet snapped, blue optics ablaze and entire body shaking. “Our agreement was that I get to save those you wouldn’t and I would help you. That’s what I’m doing. He’s only going to last a few vorn with that level of contaminates leaching from his spark.” Knock Out stomped down a pede.

“We can’t just perform surgery. Megatron must be notified beforehand. And who says I wouldn’t save him.” Ratchet ignored him, moving to secure the seeker’s spark chamber with a clamp. Knock Out ripped the tool from his hand. Ratchet’s fist followed, slamming into the side for Knock Out’s face with a clang.

The Decepticon froze, a hand on his check. Energon trickled from the space between his fingers. Ratchet took the opportunity to lung for the clamp. Years of battle training allowed Knock Out to react and block the medic. Ratchet’s strength failed him and he tumbled to his knees.

“Guards!” The door rushed open, emitting two vehicons. Breakdown was close to follow. The vehicons pulled Ratchet to his feet, blasters pointed at his chassis. The Autobot relented, sagging into their grasp. Breakdown pulled his partner’s hand away from his faceplates, inspecting the damage. They exchanged several glances, a silent conversation that ended with the ex-wrecker pulling the other into a strong hug. Finally the two broke apart, Breakdown moving across the room to retrieve solvent and a cloth to ten to Knock Out while the medic addressed the vehicons holding Ratchet. The Autobot glared.

“Take him to the bridge,” He snarled, “and send for Megatron. He’ll want to deal with him personally.” Knock Out stooped until he was face to face with the white mech, his vents hissing over his frame. “You would do well to remember that you are a prisoner, not a medic, upon this vessel. You follow my orders without question, and do not think me a friend.” Ratchet made no move to resist as the vehicons dragged him from the medbay. It took them a moment to realize that he could not walk of his own power but they eventually decided to heft him along by his shoulder armor. The moment the doors closed Breakdown huffed, forcing Knock Out onto the berth next to the still unconscious Starscream. He dabbed at the sports car’s faceplate, cleaning it of drying energon. More leaked out with every dab.

“Your paintjob mostly survived,” He commented absently, surprised that the other hadn’t began one of his vain rants yet. He stopped to examine Knock Out’s forlorn expression. “Babe?” He cooed, worry lacing his tone, “Babe, what’s wrong?” Knock Out sighed, batting Breakdown’s hand away to glance at the seeker at his side.

“He’s right,” He mumbled, causing his partner to cock his head in confusion, “Screamer won’t last long without treatment. But Megatron’s already made it clear that operating is out of the question.” Breakdown pulled Knock Out into another hug, allowing him to snuggle into his platting.

“Wanna go for a drive?” He whispered into his partner’s pointed audio. Knock Out made no indication that he intended to move. 

“I wish,” He snorted, “But our Lord will want to speak with me and I have to finish patching Screamer up.”

“Fine.” Breakdown snuggled into Knock Out’s neck. “After, then.” The red mech simply chuckled, pulling away much to Breakdown’s dismay, to look over the injured seeker. He tapped at the medical lock on the inside of his spark chamber and it slid shut. Breakdown handed him the spark support lines when he reached for them. After everything had been hooked up and repolished, Knock Out fell into a chair at his desk. Breakdown simply meandered about, cleaning this and that, checking on the vehicon in the corner and continuously rearranging supplies. He finally settled for polishing his hammer.

Knock Out smirked. His partner had a habit of acting as such when he was bored but reluctant to leave.

“You know you can go,” He murmured, never turning from his notes on the synthetic energon, “I’ll catch up when I’m done.” A clatter echoed about the room as Breakdown replaced the tools he’d been using. Suddenly, his head was on Knock Out’s shoulder and his arms hung about his neck.

“Don’t wanna,” He touched his face plate to Knock Out’s check. The medic swiveled to return the kiss.

“You’re cuddly today,” He observed, “Not that I’m objecting, but what’s wrong?” Breakdown huffed, peeved at being called out.

“Does something have to be wrong for me to see you?” The medic placed a claw to his lips and hummed as if he needed to consider his answer.

“Yes.” He spoke abruptly, a smirk engulfing his features. Breakdown shoved his chair with his foot, sending him gliding a few feet away. 

“I don’t like the Autobot.” Knock Out nodded. That’s what he’d thought.

“Nor do I,” He assured, “but once we worm the formula from him, he’ll be out of our plating.” Breakdown sighed in relent, still looking upset. The medic crossed his arms, “Though, in all honesty, if I can convince Megatron to return him to the Autobots it may end up more beneficial for us.

“Oh?” Both mechs turned, bowing their heads and stuttering out greetings as Megatron’s hulking form entered the room. “It came to my attention that you’d had some trouble dealing with our guest,” He gestured to the now sealed crack in Knock Out’s helm, “But it seems that can wait. Would you care to enlighten me to your oh so brilliant plan?” Knock Out stuttered for a moment before composing himself. 

“Of course, Lord Megatron,” He stood, adding a flourish to the bow. He’d had enough damage done to his frame for one solar cycle. “As I’ve informed you, the Autobot is very sick and won’t last long. He’d only be a burden to the Autobots cause, but they’d still be more than willing to barter for him. We may be able to get something out of it, while they’d only get a dying bot.” Megatron placed a hand on his hip plating.

“Your proposal is sound but what of your progress on my formula?” Knock Out cued up the file containing the data. This was simply for show as he knew it would make little sense to anyone without an extensive background in biology and chemistry.

“We’ve made some progress in stabilizing the formula but Ratchet is reluctant to help. He has little concern for his own well being but I’ve found that by threatening the well being of a patient, I can get him to work for a cycle or two.” Megatron’s brow rose threateningly. 

“You’ve been using my soldiers to sway him?” Knock Out cringed, “Very creative.” The medic unshuttered his optics. Had that been a compliment? From Megatron? Suddenly the war lord’s face dropped. Perhaps not. “But a cycle of work is not sufficient. I need that formula from him.”

“The compound’s incomplete, My Lord,” Knock Out stuttered taking a step back. “Ratchet had yet to complete it. We’re doing our best.”

“You honestly believe,” Megatron hissed, matching the other’s step, “that the esteemed Autobot medic would test an incomplete formula on himself?” The red ‘con sunk down into himself as he realized his mistake. “Are you so gullible that you would allow an Autobot to deceive you, a Decepticon?” His eyebrows rose dangerously high. Knock Out bowed as low as he could, deciding he was beyond the point of dignity.

“What do you suggest I do, My Lord?” Before either could react, a hand closed about Knock Out’s neck. The sports car gagged, gripping Megatron’s wrists, instinctively trying to pry him off. The grip only tightened. The sickening crunch of metal echoed about the otherwise silent room.

“Megatron!” Breakdown grabbed the war lord’s arm, attempting to free his struggling mate. Megatron simply knocked him back.

“You have something to say, Breakdown?” Knock Out whimpered as he tightened his grip again. The blue mech stepped back at the pleading look in his mate’s eyes.

“N-no,” He stuttered, “My apologies, Master.” Megatron studied the other for a moment before dropping the medic. Breakdown rushed to his side. He gasped and sputtered in his mate’s arms, his form shaking and optics shut tight. Breakdown simply held him, rocking back and forth slightly. The Decepticon leader leaned in close.

“Figure it out,” He hissed. Knock Out nodded franticly after the leaving mech. The red medic buried his face in Breakdown’s chassis, and sobbed.

-

The Autobot medic couldn’t help the gasp of air that escaped his vents as he made contact with the cell wall. A cackle followed. A two fingered hand landed on his shoulder, digging into the plating. Ratchet hissed.

“If you ever hurt the commander,” He breathed in his audio. The second vehicon cut in.

“Leave him be, Steve,” He called, “Megatron wants him unharmed.” The grip remained.

“I didn’t harm Starscream,” Ratchet chocked out, prying his optics open to glare into the drone’s visor slit. “I was trying to save him. He won’t last long with what your Lord,” He spat the title like spoiled high-grade, “does to him.” Finally, the clawed servo retreated as the other pulled Steve back. Ratchet sighed, letting himself relax into the floor when the cell door slammed closed. As long as he was alone, he was safe. With a groan, he clutched his shoulder. The ach had returned from the burn. It sent a tingling through his spine. His back strut was weak, as the weld had yet to fully heal. It hurt like Pit and wasn’t helping his inability to walk correctly.

“Hurting, Autobot?” The voice caused his head to snap up. Megatron’s red optics glared at him through the energy field protecting the cell. “You may have fooled my medic, but not me. One way or another, I will have that formula.” Ratchet shivered at the inflection in his tone. He had the sickening feeling he knew what was coming. “Now do you wish to save yourself the agony of interrogation or simply endure it?” Ratchet pulled himself up against the wall, his arms nearly giving out in the process.

“As I’ve already told your medic, I never finished the formula.” Megatron glared, his amusement quickly fading.

“And you expect me to believe that you tested an incomplete formula on yourself?”

“I made a mistake-,” Megatron slammed a fist against the energy field, effectively causing the medic to startle.

“We’ll see how you feel after a cycle with Soundwave.” The communications officer stepped forward. “Have fun, my loyal servant.” With that, Megatron left the brig, leaving the prisoner and his would be interrogator alone. Soundwave entered the cell, silent as ever. His covered optics turned to meet Ratchet’s. The dark screen flashed as he activated a voice clip. 

“Save yourself the agony of interrogation.” Ratchet spat, spewing oral lubricants on the mech’s pedes.

“Do your worst.” Soundwave nodded, approaching with confident strides. Cables snaked from his chest and consumed the Autobot before them. 

-

The base was quiet, as most of its occupants were out, except for the muffled whine of the central computer. Bathing in the warmth emitted by the technology sat the young Autobot scout and his charge. Rafael glanced up from his laptop to watch Bumblebee, who held a data pad containing cybertronian legends. The bot would often read the text to the human, for though Raf could understand the beeps and whirrs that made up the cybertronian dialect, he could not read the complex language. How he could do even that had yet to be determined.

Slowly, the three fingered hand holding the book slid into Bumblebee’s lap, though his gaze remained where it was. Rafael suspected that he was never actually reading in the first place. He placed a hand on his companion’s larger one, drawing his attention. The bot clicked questioningly.

“Wanna’ go for a drive?” The scout shook his head, emitting a sound similar to rain. “Still?” Raf raised a surprised eyebrow, “Guess that nixes that idea.” He stared longingly at his companion, wishing desperately that he could ease the pain. Finally he gave into the bot’s wills, no matter how counterproductive they were. “You’re wanting to watch the monitors, aren’t you?” Bumblebee nearly knocked Raf to the floor in his rush to reach the monitoring station. The scout had been watching the blank tracking systems piously from the moment he was deemed fit for duty. Each hour that Ratchet’s signal did not reappear only served to dash his spirits. And yet it was the only hope he had. The others did not have the heart to take that from the young mech. Anyway, someone had to do the task. 

Bee clicked in disappointment when the tracking systems came up empty yet again. Raf placed a hand on the exposed plating of his pede, tugging to be let up. The bot lifted him to his shoulder, where the human sat comfortably. He patted the bot’s shoulder in what he hopped was a reassuring manner. 

“The alarm’s on, Bee,” Raf comforted, “We’ll know if anything changes. Let’s get lunch and watch some TV. There’s nothing we can do right now.” Bee nodded, reluctant. His tank was low anyway. He strode to the energon dispenser, placing Rafael before the humans’ fridge before pouring himself a half cube of energon. The taste was pure as ever, running smoothly down his scared intakes. Ratchet had built the refinery to perfection from simple scrap the human government had provided them with. He’d fought with the unrefined materials, unfamiliar tools, and confined work area. Bumblebee couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory of the tantrums he’d thrown. Optimus had ban him from work for a bream after one of his thrown tools had nearly smashed a human worker.

The silence of his memory was interrupted by a sharp, almost painful beep. The cube of energon clattered to the floor, sloshing in every direction. Rafael had to jump back to avoid the burning liquid. In an instant, Bumblebee was at the computer. A flashing red dot had appeared on the US-Canadian border. Ratchet’s physical statues blinked a warning red off to the side. Every aspect of it was worryingly low. 

The comm. button was jammed fiercely into the consol. Bumblebee whirred and clicked franticly, not waiting for a conformation before he began.  
Optimus’ weary voice boomed back. “Slow down, Bumblebee. Where is the signal?” Bumblebee clicked out a response. “Ground bridge me back to base.” As he spoke, Raf was already entering the proper coordinates into the ground bridge central computer. A blinding flash of light signaled its activation. Within seconds, Optimus’ large frame appeared.

“Rafael,” He ordered, already turning back towards the bridge, “bridge Bumblebee and I to Ratchet’s location, then the others back to base. Retain an open comm. and contact June. Have them prep medbay.” The boy nodded, doing as he was told. The Autobot’s thundering footsteps faded from the confines of the base.  
The Nemesis was quiet, the halls deserted. Quickly, both Optimus and his scout slipped around the next corner. If Ratchet was injured, which by the signal’s sudden appearance he most likely was, it would do best not to draw attention to themselves. 

Bumblebee gripped the scanner tighter in his hands, pointing in the indicated direction. Optimus nodded, trusting the scout to lead the way. A noise caused them to stop, pressing themselves to the ship wall. Two vehicons rounded the corner, neither passing in the bots’ direction.

“-slagged Knock Out good,” The first seemed pleased with the assumption, “Did you see the look on his face. He couldn’t believe someone had the brass bearings to punch him.” The two stopped, taking a moment to simply converse.

“What do you think he meant about the Commander?” The second vehicon mumbled.

“You still hung up on that?” He smacked the other’s shoulder. “Feel free to go back and ask him, but I’m not going. I’m not keen on being anywhere near Soundwave when he’s doing an interrogation.” Bumblebee glanced at Optimus who silently returned the look. There was little doubt as to whom they were referring.

“Uh-Uh,” The other stuttered, “No way. I’ve seen the aftermath of his torture sessions. I’d rather not see it in action.” He chuckled nervously. A bang caused both to startle. Bumblebee clamped a hand over his faceplates to keep from shirking at the sound. 

“What the slag are you two doing standing around!” An eradicon, evidently a superior, appeared behind the others. Both snapped to attention. “Get back to your posts.” He clapped his hands threateningly. “Quickly, quickly.” They dashed off without a second thought. The eradicon huffed, puffing out his chest and dusting himself off. The moment he turned his back, his focus on a control panel in the wall, Optimus motioned for Bee to follow. The scout, however, miss calculated his step. His foot clanged softly on the wall at his back. The drone turned. Optimus shoved the scout back against the wall, none too gently. Quiet steps followed, edging around the corner. Both bots did their best to muffle their nervous vents. As the startled face of the eradicon peeked about the corner, it did little good.

Before the drone could react, Optimus lunged. His hands wrapped about the drone’s head, giving a sharp twist and cleanly snapping his back strut where it connected to his neck cabling. He feel limp to the ground, paralyzed and unconscious but still very much alive.

Quickly the two darted, dashing about the next corner and down the winding halls. The lighting grew bleaker the closer they got to the brig, as little power was spared for prisoners. Optimus stopped Bumblebee before he could pry the door open. There were no guards outside, which suggested that there was at least one on the inside. He motioned for the scout to stay behind him. Together they braced for the door to open. When it did, a rather surprised Soundwave stared back. 

Optimus brought a fist forward, his knuckles nicking the plating of Soundwave’s jaw. The Decepticon dodged a second blow, his arm blocking the ferocious lung. The third strike connected directly with the mask-like screen covering Soundwave’s face. The glass shattered, shards piercing the soft metal beneath.  
Soundwave wailed, emitting sound not dissimilar to the one’s Bumblebee commonly made, and brought both servos up to cover his face. He had little time to react as Bumblebee’s foot slammed into his chest, knocking him into the far wall. He stood for a moment, back against the cold metal of the Nemesis, his legs shaking. Finally, his strength gave out and he tumbled to the ground, his optics dimming to black. Bee bounced where he stood, fists raised, evidently pleased with himself. Optimus placed a hand on his shoulder, signaling him to remain quiet. Once he did, the Prime pointed to the ground. The scout did as he was instructed, turning to keep watch. 

Optimus moved surprisingly quickly and silently for his bulk. He dashed about the brig hall, checking each of the cells as he passed. Each empty cell only served to dash he’s hopes further, and caused his tanks to clench a little tighter. He would have called out for Ratchet but was worried the cells were bugged. Though, if he did not find the other quickly, it may have become necessary. 

Optimus stopped suddenly when he reached the last cell. “Ratchet,” He breathed. With a simple tap, the energy field about the cell dissipated. Prime eased in, careful not to startle the half conscious medic. Ratchet hung by his wrists a pace from the far wall, his knees barely scrapping at the ground. His plating was dented and scratched, leaking energon in several places. Most of his armor was intact. His chest platting had been ripped off, exposing the mess of circuitry underneath but his spark chamber remained firmly sealed. The Prime fumbled nervously with the cuffs binding his friend’s wrists. 

“Prime?” Ratchet’s voice was filled with popping static. His vents wheezed, attempting to expel the soot that had built up in his wiring. Optimus eased a hand out of the cuff, helping the bot down from the wall.

“I’m here, Ratchet.” The medic gripped desperately at Optimus, his fingers latching wherever they could in his chest plating. He was shaking so badly that whenever he found purchase, his hands slipped free. The big-rig pulled him close, cradling his smaller frame. “Ratchet, we need to go,” He whispered, “Can you walk?” Ratchet quickly composed himself, pushing Optimus away and attempting to stand. Optimus slipped an arm under his shoulder and helped him to his feet. Once the other was stable enough, Optimus pressed a finger to his finial. “Base, do you read? We are in need of a bridge.” 

“We read you, Optimus.” Bulkhead’s voice crackled over the comm. link, “But there’s some interference near you, we can’t get a lock.”

“Understood,” Ratchet shifted in Optimus’ grip, “We’ll move into the hall and see if the signal is better.” Prime pulled Ratchet along, helping his sluggish legs forward. 

“Optimus,” Ratchet breathed, “Any faster and I’m going to glitch.” The Prime grunted in acknowledgment, considering simply picking Ratchet up and carrying him. However, the sudden movement may only cause more harm than good. 

Ratchet’s sudden cry of pain, as he collapsed to the ground, slipping from Optimus’ grasp, ripped him from his determined concentration. Prime whirled, facing the attacker. Soundwave collapsed against the wall again, his blaster arm clattering to the ground. Ratchet gasped out pained moans as his arms flailed for purchase on the cold ground, delirious from pain. Wasting no time, Optimus grabbed him by the waist, careful to avoid his laser scorched back, and slung him over a shoulder, dashing from the brig. Ratchet groaned, biting down on a servo to stifle the sound. Optimus had little time for sympathy, though each pained gasp split his spark further, as he barreled up the brig hall. Bumblebee jumped as he shoved past but quickly followed when he caught sight of Prime’s cargo. Bee tapped Ratchet’s hand when he reached out, reassuring him of his presence.

“Prime?!” The panicked voice blasted over the comm., “What the slag is happening, you’re moving too fast to get a lock on with all the interference. Ratchet’s signal is going crazy.”

“We need a bridge, Bulkhead!” Optimus shouted over approaching footsteps, “Now!” On cue one appeared, though on the opposite side of the long corridor. Optimus turned, checking that Bumblebee was still at his rear. To his surprise, so was Knock Out. 

“Wait!” He shouted, reaching for the Autobots. Ratchet banged furiously on Optimus’ shoulder, causing him to pause. The red sports car held out a case. “Here,” He panted, “There’s a copy of all the progress we made on Synth-En inside and a batch of meds I’ve been giving him to control the seizures.” Raising a brow, Optimus reached for the box in the other’s hand. Knock Out pulled it back before he could grab it. “On one condition.”

“Quickly,” Optimus ground out. In the moment it gave him, he shifted Ratchet into a more comfortable position, holding him in his arms instead of over his shoulder. The medic was now in and out of lucidity. 

“The cons are falling apart. When that happens, I want asylum, for both Breakdown and I.” Optimus nodded.

“As long as you mean no harm, you will have it.” Knock Out placed the box on Ratchet’s stomach, who was aware enough to hold onto it. Footsteps echoed in a nearby hall. The cherry red mech glanced apprehensively behind him.

“Ratchet?” He breathed, leaning in close, “Whatever happened to First Aid?” Ratchet stared for a moment, his mind catching up to the question. Despite the urgency of the situation, Optimus felt it was important that the older bot was the one who answered. 

“Gone,” Ratchet rasped, attempting to keep his shaky voice as steady as possible, “I couldn’t save him.” Knock Out’s face fell. Some part of him had hoped that at least one piece of his life before the war remained.

Voices echoed down the halls. “Signal’s coming from this wing!” Optimus gave Knock Out one last grateful look before disappearing into the ground bridge.


	5. Chapter 5

The base went quiet the moment Optimus stepped through the ground bridge. Bumblebee dashed in behind him. All eyes fell to Ratchet. The silence was disturbed by only the medic mumbling as he reached a quaking hand out towards Bulkhead. The former wrecker brushed his fingertips, his smile filled with barely concealed worry. The medic’s hand slid away from his to fall limply at his side.

“Remain online, Ratchet,” Optimus whispered as he placed the injured mech on a medical berth. Arcee was instantly at his side, helping to hook up the monitoring equipment and spark support. 

“Optimus,” Ratchet wheezed. The Prime leaned in closer, “Your hand.” He glanced down at his servo, finding his knuckles leaking energon and a shard of glass still lodged in the joint.

“It can wait,” He assured. Ratchet made to protest but Prime cut him off. “You are in more danger than I at the moment.” Ratchet conceded, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. He was lucid enough to see the truth in the statement. A rainbow of light bathed his form, startling the mech, as Arcee scanned him. His frame quaked in his distressed. The growing rattle of metal upon metal pulled Optimus’ gaze away from the scan readouts. The prime frowned. Ratchet’s upper half was violently shaking with the stress of the situation, but his legs remained stationary. “Arcee.” Prime muttered, pointing to the issue when she responded. Her expression joined Optimus’.

“Ratchet,” The femme knelt by his side, taking his hand in her own when he reached for her. “I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, but do you think you can focus for me?” Ratchet gave a shaky nod. His gaze locked onto Arcee’s, fighting desperately against the temptation of recharge. “Squeeze my hand.” The medic followed the command as best he could. His grip was weak but there. “Good. Now wiggle your pedes.”

“Hurts,” Ratchet gasped, his features scrunching up in pain.

“I know, but please try.” She held his hand tighter; doing what she could to comfort the panicking mech. He clamped his optics against the pain and did as he was asked. Both Optimus and Arcee stared at his unmoving pedes for a moment. Suddenly, Ratchet began to shake again. Arcee rubbed at his shoulder. “Shhh,” She soothed, “it’s okay. You’re okay.” It did little to help.

“I can’t feel my legs,” He was mumbling, “I can’t feel my legs.” Optimus placed a hand on Arcee’s shoulder as she struggled to keep her vocals from clicking. Suddenly, Ratchet pulled his hand from Arcee’s, reaching for Optimus. “Let me see the scans,” He snapped, his medic’s tone returning. Optimus nodded, quickly downloading the information to a datapad and handing it to the white mech. He quickly skimmed the results. His expression remained stoic despite the underlying grimace. 

“Ratchet?” Optimus breathed, moving to help him when his hands began to lose their grip on the datapad.

“Set up an intravenous drip,” He pointed to the far side of the room, “The medical grade energon is in the far left cabinet. Add Boron and Iron to it. Three grams each.” Arcee hesitated before grabbing the supplies. Both bots were amazed at Ratchet’s ability to retake command of his medbay, even when he was the patient.

“Ratchet?” Optimus waited until he had the bot’s attention. It was obvious that he was having a hard time remaining focused. “Are you alright?” It was a foolish question, really, but the Prime could not resist asking.

“No.” His reply was immediate and curt, almost to the point of being harsh. “But if my self-repair systems don’t come back online soon, I’m going to lose my legs.”

“You-” Ratchet held up a hand to stop his companion from completing that thought.

“I’m paralyzed, Optimus.” Ratchet pulled his helm from the berth with a grunt, “My backstrut has snapped and the circuitry there has been frayed. Possibly beyond repair.” Arcee fumbled with the drip she was setting up, shocked at the revelation. “Careful with that, Arcee,” Ratchet chided, “Make sure you don’t – Gah! Primus femme! That’s what I was trying to tell you about!” The two wheeler jumped back at his shout of pain. The line was set, however, so there was little sense in redoing it now. 

“S-sorry, Ratchet,” She mumbled. “Anything else?” The medic’s optics were becoming harder to keep online by the astrosecond. His body, adrenaline flushed from his systems, was falling into stasis.

“Thermal blanket,” He mumbled, “Freezing.” Arcee turned to search the cabinets for a tarp. A drop in plating temperature was a sure sign of shock. There wasn’t much to be done, however, except keep him as calm and comfortable as possible, and to check that his condition didn’t worsen. Only once the blanket was in place and Ratchet was nearly in recharge did Arcee leave the medbay.

“Optimus,” Arcee stopped, listening to the weak voice of her friend, “Stay. Please.” The two wheeler quickly closed the medbay doors, unable to keep her voice box from clicking any longer. Coolant ran down her face plates and her vents hitched. Strong arms wrapped about her middle, pulling her against the owner’s chest platting. Bulkhead ran a hand over her wingstruts. Her sobbing slowed to a steady gasping.

“How is he?” Bulkhead tightened his grip when her tears returned. He waited for her to calm again. Eventually, she had enough control to speak.

“He’s stable,” She mumbled, refusing to allow Bulkhead to let her go, “In shock, but stable. Optimus is staying with him.” Bulkhead nodded, he’d expected as much. The rest, however, he was shocked to learn. “Bulk, he’s paralyzed. His backstrut’s snapped. And he’s the only one with the medical knowledge to perform that kind of surgery. He won’t walk again.” The ex-wrecker pushed her to arms length to meet her gaze. Her checks were tear stained and coolant dripped from the edge of her helm. With a large thumb, he whipped gently at her optics.

“We’ll get through this, Cee. It’ll be okay, I promise.” She nodded, cycling a deep breath.

“We are so few,” She mumbled. There was no denying that. In the past two solar cycles they’d lost one of their best warriors and were about to lose their medic, engineer and scientist, all in one fell swoop. 

“We’ll get through this,” he mumbled again, though with much less confident to his tone. “Come on. The kids just got here, they’re pretty freaked out.” Arcee nodded, standing up strait, composing herself. Jack would serve as a good distraction from the worry and stress. The two made their way back to the main bay with one last glance back at the infirmary. Despair almost seemed to seep out from under the door. The children glanced up at the sound of the bots’ approaching footsteps. Bulkhead smiled warmly when Miko dashed over and attached herself to his pede. He lifted her up to sit on her shoulder. She immediately settled in, relaxing. Jack compromised for leaning against Arcee’s leg when she sat down next to Bumblebee. The femme patted his leg when he clicked at her questioningly.

“You did good, Bee.” His door wings twitched, rising somewhat. Silence fell over the room. No one wanted to be the first to break the tense atmosphere. The medbay doors slid open, catching everyone’s attention. Optimus paused before joining the other’s on the floor.

“He’s recharging,” He explained, “And we need to talk.” The children stood to leave, assuming that the commander wished to speak solely to his troops. “All of us.” Optimus nodded his approval when they found their seats again.

“Everything okay with the Doc, Big Guy?” For once, Optimus was thankful for Miko’s outspoken nature. He was dreading this conversation but the girl did well to help lighten the air. 

“That is what I wished to speak with you about.” He folded his hands carefully in his lap, assuming the most confident air he could, “There are going to have to be a few changes around base. There is a high possibility that, while we are doing everything we can, Ratchet will be permanently paralyzed.” Miko tightened her grasp on Bulk’s shoulder, her mouth pulling into a thin line. “I also believe that during his stay in the Decepticon base he was tortured. To what extent I do not know, and will not until he is willing to talk about this. Until then, do not force the subject on him. Support him and help him when needed but try not to treat him any different than you normally would.” All present hummed in understanding. 

Bulkhead leaned forward, forcing Miko to sit as he lurched. “I had a friend, early in the war, that was captured and tortured. Hardly recognized him when we got him out. It took years for him to get over the nightmares and relapses.” He shivered. “Some of the things he would scream at night had me terrified.”

“Pyro?” Arcee tilted her head.

“Yeah. You knew him?” The femme nodded. 

“I meet him once on a field mission. Good guy, just a little demented.” The others silently watched the conversation. It had pulled the mood down considerably, if that was even possible. It was hard to imagine surly, kind hearted Ratchet depressed in any notion of the word. He had been falling into that path over the past few months. It was incredibly hard to witness when he did show it outside of a private environment. 

“Bulkhead,” Optimus chided “Let us not dwell upon the worst. Knock Out showed some compassion during our escape, so his conditions may not have always been as they were when we found him.

“How did you find him?” Rafael was almost afraid to ask.

“In the brig,” Optimus shook his head, as if shaking the unpleasant image free, “Bound. His chest armor will need to be refabricated and completely replaced. But beyond exhaustion and paranoia, he did not seem too bad off. 

“Until Soundwave shot him,” Arcee mumbled under her breath.

“Yes. That was a rather unfortunate turn of events.”

“Wait,” Arcee started, “Knock Out?” The femme rubbed at her arm, flicking free some dirt from a transformation seam. Jack swatted at her, grumbling as dust fell into his hair. She ruffled his hair teasingly. “Didn’t think that anyone as vain as him would help anyone but themselves.” Optimus hummed.

“It was not without demands.”

“Figures,” Arcee muttered. Prime gave her a warning look. “What? It’s true.” Optimus ignored her.

“Knock Out asked for asylum in the near future. We will provide him with s-“

“Whoa, whoa!” Bulkhead cut in, “wherever Knock Out goes, Breakdown follows.” Optimus nodded. “You can’t be serious! We can’t trust Breakdown.” He stood, stomping a foot down and working himself into a frenzy. Miko shrieked as her perch pitched forward.

“Bulkhead,” The mech’s tone remained steady, despite the authority within it. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“I gave him a second chance!” He was now shouting, “I gave him multiple chances. He’s nothing but a traitor, and I will not be under the same roof as that slagger!” Arcee waved him down, cutting off his rant with a harsh finger to her lips. Bulk made to retort when a soft moan reached his audios. All eyes turned towards the medbay. Optimus stood with a disappointed glare.

“We will discuss this latter, Bulkhead.” The wrecker stepped in front of him as he made to leave. He quickly placed Miko on the floor before speaking.

“Let me,” he was almost pleading, “I need to cool off anyway.” Prime glanced over him, examining the option, before nodding. With a word of thanks, and apology, Bulkhead entered the medbay.

Ratchet lay awkwardly on the nearest medical berth, his helm propped up and his legs covered by a thermal tarp, which was slowly dragging itself over the edge. Spark support cables hung from his form, and his chest was stripped to the protoform. The transformation seams at the edge of his spark chamber glowed with a faintly pulsing light. It was much too weak for Bulkhead’s taste.

As silently, and carefully as he could, the green mech pulled the thermal up over the medic’s shoulders. Ratchet’s optics followed his movements sluggishly. 

“What was the shouting?” He mumbled, mind still half immersed in recharge.

“Sorry,” Bulk muttered, pulling over a stool to sit next to the older mech. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Just go back to recharge. I’ll stay if you want.” Ratchet shook his head slowly, stopping when his tanks began to churn, despite being empty. 

“Can’t. Nightmares,” He mumbled, shrugging as if it were nothing. Bulkhead grabbed his hand, as it had begun to twitch. Ratchet returned his grip as best he could.

“Wanna’ talk about it?” Bulk was never very appt at discussing feelings, or any other psychological slag, but he was willing to try. Ratchet, however, wasn’t as keen.

“Not particularly,” He shifted on the berth, grunting when his back strut sent a flare of pain running through his body. “Just stay for now.” The wrecker nodded. He had no intention of leaving just yet. He leaned an elbow against the berth edge, settling in. It was painful seeing Ratchet like this: so vulnerable, so helpless where he was normally in charge of every situation. Even Optimus occasionally questioned who was truly in command. Seeing him as the patient, instead of the CMO, was disconcerting. 

Ratchet seemed to sense his distress. “I’m okay, Bulk,” he soothed, squeezing the other’s hand. Bulk hummed absently, seeing through the lie. “Bulk?” The wrecker tilted his head silently. “I’m sorry.” 

“What?” He blurted, “What for? You have nothing to apologize for.”

Ratchet shook his head, insisting on the need to apologize. “I’m sorry you went through all the trouble of making me a cane and I won’t even be able to use it.” He glanced away, avoiding any optic contact, ashamed.

Bulkhead shook his head furiously, pressing Ratchet’s hand to his chest. “No, Ratchet, please don’t beat up on yourself. It was no trouble at all. I enjoyed making it. Besides, it’s only a piece of fancy metal. You’re more important.” 

“I’m a piece of fancy metal,” The medic mumbled.

Bulkhead gaffed, “A very fancy piece.” Ratchet grinned at him, pleased with himself for making a joke out of the situation. “But in all seriousness, Ratch, the cane doesn’t matter. I’m just happy you’re still kicking.” Ratchet glanced at his pedes, which were peeking out from under the blanket. His face fell. Bulkhead’s optics widened when he realized his mistake. “B-bad choice of words. Sorry.” 

Ratchet shrugged. “It’s fine. It’s just going to take some time for this to sink in.” The larger mech nodded. It had yet to fully sink in for him yet, he had no such expectations for Ratchet.

“You need anything?” He asked, desperate for a change in subject.

“Some sensor dampener would be nice.” Bulk nodded, giving Ratchet’s hand one last squeeze before standing to search the cabinets for the medicine. As per usual, the medic’s space was perfectly organized. He pushed aside a few cubes of medical energon to reach the bottles of pain killers in the back. A flash of emerald caught his optic. With a raised brow, Bulk pushed to the back of the cabinet.

He turned, holding out his discovery for Ratchet. “Synth-En?” Worry and disappointment laced his voice. 

“For research,” his reply was almost too quick, “and for medical purposes, just in case.” His gazed turned to the far wall.

“Just in case?” Bulkhead neared the berth, not wanting to upset the injured mech, but too upset himself to not address the problem. “Ratch, it took you over a month to come down from this stuff. And you only took it once.”

“Twice.” Bulkhead reeled, startled. Ratchet continued before he could interject. “Once initially, and again a day later.” The wrecker sighed in relief, having assumed he’d taken it again after the incident.

“My point still stands,” Bulkhead sat at the medic’s side, placing the vile of addictive energon on the edge of the berth. “This stuff is dangerous. You remember what it did to you.”

“I know, Bulkhead!” Ratchet snapped. A surge of pain, however, caused him to force himself to calm. “In all likelihood I will never have to use it in a medical context, but the research is still invaluable. I could still create a working synthetic energon, or counteract its effects if the Decepticons ever manage to crack the formula. I never had any ill intent in keeping that slag around.”

Bulkhead vented a sigh. “Okay, Ratch, I trust you.” 

Ratchet groaned, flexing his hands experimentally as Bulk injected the pain killers into his main energon line. The burning had ebbed to a dull ache. “Primus,” he mumbled, “What I wouldn’t give for a cube of highgrade.” Bulk raised a brow.

“You drink?” Surprise laced his tone.

“You didn’t know?” Ratchet’s optics shuttered repeatedly, fighting to stay awake. “I’ve been sober for four vorn now, but I figured you’d have heard the rumors the other liked to spread about me when I’m overcharged.”

“Wait, sober?” Bulkhead placed his chin on his fist, leaning in, “You were an alcoholic?” Ratchet sighed, nodding.

“War or not,” Ratchet began, laying his arms over his chest, “Watching innocent bots die on your operating table, watching your creators die, and being helpless to save them, wears at you. At first it was just to ease the stress but once the war began, one cube became five and before I knew it I was waking up the next morning not remembering the night before.” He glanced up at the ceiling before locking his gaze with the other’s. “It’s not something I’m proud of, Bulk.”

The wrecker held up his hands up, dually in a defensive gesture and one meant to sooth. “I’m not accusing you, Ratch. Why do you think I joined the Wreckers? It was easier to constantly risk my life than stop and face everything. I just never took you for a drinker. You know, with how pissed you get at us when we don’t take care of ourselves.”

Ratchet gave a weak chuckle that quickly turned into a wheezing cough. “Do what I say, not what I do.” Bulkhead grinned, nodding.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” He watched as the medic struggled to keep awake. “But for now, maybe you should take your own advice. Get some recharge, Ratch. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He smiled warmly with the white mech nodded, falling into almost instant recharge. For several clicks he simply watched him, listening to the steady hum of his systems. Slowly, his shoulders relaxed and his mind stilled from the panic and anger that had filled his every thought. The green mech placed a broad hand over Ratchet’s simply glad to have the medic back. During his days as a wrecker, and even before for that matter, he’d never believed he would need anyone as much as he needed every member of his team, his family. Losing Cliffjumper had been hard, but the idea of losing their grumpy old medic was gut wrenching.

Settling in, Bulkhead snagged a nearby datapad. It covered, in detail, the effects of seizures on CCG patients and proper treatment. The preface revealed that it was one of Ratchet’s own works. The text was dense and Bulkhead wasn’t the brightest spark in the transistor, but he was willing to learn.

Hours later, Ratchet would wake to find the green mech recharging in his chair, datapad forgotten in his lap and hand still covering Ratchet’s.


	6. Chapter 6

“Action!” Miko was practically screaming, holding the DVD uncomfortably close to Jack’s nose. “We need explosions, gunfire, gore!” Jack shook his head, shoving the offending hand back.

“We watched what you wanted last week, Miko. And Raf agrees with me on the Sci-fi front.” Rafael glanced up from his laptop at his name, evidently paying little attention.

Miko slumped backwards, nearly falling over in her exaggerated pout. “Jack, we live in a sci-fi movie. We should at least watch something different.”

“Miko!” Jack barked, “By that logic we also live in an action movie!” Ratchet glanced up from his spot on the couch with a glare. A blanket covered his limp legs and an energon drip hung from his left wrist. Bandages covered his chest in a zigzag pattern, hiding the gruesome appearance of half formed platting as nanites reconnected them to his protoform. His subspace and shoulder plating had been removed to lessen the weight on his back, revealing a large amount of protoform. He’d lost a portion of his lower abdomen to the paralysis, so several oversized pillows, referred to by humans as matrices, propped him against the back of the couch. It was the first he’d gotten out of the medbay in the last week without being constantly doted on. Evidently, peace and quiet were not going to come today.

“Well,” Raf piped up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “If both sci-fi and action are out, how about a romantic comedy?”

“No!” Both children shouted in unison, Jack shuddering and Miko pulling a disgusted look. Ratchet winced, his growing processor ache throbbing with the volume. 

“If you three glitches do not quiet your bickering and choose something to watch quickly,” he snapped, placing his datapad forcefully in his lap, “then you will be stuck watching the documentary on the human nervous system that I have been meaning to see.”

Miko cocked her head, placing a hand on her hip. “You want to watch a documentary?” 

Ratchet nodded slowly, “It would be preferable to anything you children pick.” Raf closed his laptop before picking himself up to stride over to the TV.

“Well,” he began, flicking the television on and pulling up the recorded programs, “We can’t decide. How about we just watch that?” Both Miko and Jack nodded, moving to sit on the floor on either side of the medic’s pedes.

Ratchet shuttered his optics once, twice. “You actually want to watch a film on human anatomy?” 

“Like Raf said,” Jack began, shrugging, “we were just going to keep arguing so we’ll watch what you want to.”

“Well,” Ratchet stuttered, “I… appreciate it.” As Rafael cued up the show, the monotonous voice of the narrator echoed throughout the otherwise quiet base. Bulkhead peeked out from around the corner at the change in sound. He smiled at the sight before slipping away to set an automatic alarm on the monitors and put away the datapad he’d been reading. Once he’d gotten past all the medical mumbo-jumbo the text had proved to be rather interesting. It also served to prove just how smart the Doc had to be to write the medical journal, much less understand it.

Once everything was set, Bulkhead made his way into the rec room, silently finding a seat on the couch. Miko peered up at him, but did not budge from her spot leaning against Ratchet’s pede. The medic glanced questioningly in his direction but pulled his blanket in closer to make room.

After a moment, the green mech leaned over to whisper in the white’s audio. “What’s it talking about?”

Ratchet couldn’t help but chuckle. Bulkhead had lasted longer than he thought he would. “The human eye. The light passes through the lens and is projected on the retina, where it is received and interpreted by the optic nerve.” Bulkhead squinted. The medic could almost hear the gears in his processor grinding together.

“Wait,” He muttered, pointing at the screen, “Then why is the picture upside-down when it’s on the… the ret- re- whatever it is.” Ratchet sighed. He was pleased that Bulkhead was interested but it was truly a nuance to explain every detail to him. 

“Retina,” He reiterated. “The brain flips it back to the proper orientation.”

“Orien – What?”

“Uprighted-ness,” He clarified jokingly, “It’s extremely similar to our optics. Though, they lack the zoom capacity that we posses.” Bulkhead hummed, understanding marginally. The two returned to silence. Much to Ratchet’s surprise, the Wrecker became so entranced in the documentary that he jumped and shrieked when a hand landed on his shoulder. All eyes turned to Optimus, who, along with Bumblebee, had returned from patrol.

“Care to join us, Optimus?” Jack gestured to the empty spot on the couch. Bumblebee had needed no prompting and was already settled in next to Raf. Optimus smiled.

“Allow me to grab some fuel and then I will gladly join you.” With that he disappeared about the corner to where the energon dispenser was located. When he returned, Arcee was in tow, rubbing at her optics to rid them of recharge. The femme found a seat on the floor opposite Bumblebee, while Bulk moved over to allow Optimus to sit between himself and Ratchet. The prime did so gladly, placing a cube of energon at his feet and a bowl in his lap.

“Optimus,” Ratchet chided, glaring at the brick colored sticks in Optimus’ lap, “That is not fuel.” Prime almost tauntingly popped one of the rust sticks into his mouth, crunching on it loudly. The children, both human and cybertronian, gapped at his very un-Prime like behavior. He only smiled at his eldest friend. Ratchet, however, was working himself into a ranting mood. “I hid those for a reason! Where in Primus’ name did you find them?” 

“In you medical cabinet last night, when I was looking for a place to store the medicine Knock Out gave us.”

Ratchet fumed, “I hid those for a good reason.”

“So I wouldn’t eat them? Ratchet, there is no harm in a few rust sticks.” The medic shook his head.

“You don’t stop at just a few.” Rafael glanced up in honest curiosity.

“Optimus has a sweet tooth?” Miko questioned. Ratchet huffed at the understatement, but let it go, as his intakes were beginning to hurt. Optimus merely shrugged, chewing on the end of a second rust stick. After a moment, and a dismissive wave, albeit a forceful one, from Ratchet, all eyes turned back to the television. The program was long past its end, but none were willing to leave just yet. Jack switched over to the next recording, some TV drama that no one had really been following. Raf pulled out his laptop and began working, Bumblebee looking curiously over his shoulder. Miko was nearly asleep, curled into the blanket that covered Ratchet’s pedes, while Bulk was close to joining her in recharge. The only thing that was keeping him alert was watching Ratchet’s hand slowly inch towards Optimus’ leg. He was curious to see the result. 

Optimus had abandoned the bowl of rust sticks for the time being, choosing instead to sip at his cube of energon. The treat was in short supply and the ingredients were considered expensive on earth. He’d taken to savoring the ones he had left. Slowly, as not to alert the Prime, Ratchet’s hand slipped into the bowl and pulled out a rust stick, which he promptly placed underneath his blanket, out of sight. 

Bulkhead grinned. It was good to see the Doc doing something other than recharging or sulking. Once the Medibot was sure Optimus was not looking, Ratchet snapped off a piece of the rust stick and promptly popped it into his mouth. He repeated this action twice more before the rust stick was completely consumed and Optimus took notice, having caught him with his hand in the bowl once again.

Optimus glared down at the offending appendage. “Ratchet,” He scolded, “You have been on nothing but medical grade for the past megacycle. I do not honestly believe such snacks are good for your systems.” Ratchet huffed, pulling his arm back with a sheepish grin, despite the newly acquired rust stick in his hand.

“I’m perfectly fine,” He chimed, “Rust sticks don’t impede healing.” 

“But they do not help either,” Bulk could no longer tell if the two were being serious or merely taunting each other. “Your tanks are completely empty and would not appreciate the first thing in them being a sweet.” Optimus held out a hand for the treat Ratchet had taken. It took some coaxing and practically wrestling it playfully out of the other’s hand, but Ratchet finally forfeited his prize. Optimus returned it to the bowl, which he then moved to the other side of him, placing it between Bulkhead’s leg and his own. By now, every human and Autobot had abandoned the TV once more in favor of the two eldest cybertronians. The medic pouted, turning his gaze heatedly away for Optimus’, instead choosing to stare at the wall. It was a rather immature move, he had to admit, but slag if he wasn’t getting a kick out of it. Letting go like this was something he hadn’t done in a long time.

The children began giggling and he struggled to fight off a grin imagining the look on Optimus’ face at his behavior. The soft tapping on his shoulder, thus, surprised him. He glanced over at his eldest friend, finding him engrossed with the TV once more. Bulkhead, however, was smiling expectantly at him. Ratchet glanced discreetly back behind the couch. The wrecker tapped the rust stick against his shoulder once again, which Ratchet gratefully took. The medic mouthed a word of gratitude before tucking the stick away for later, once he was out of Optimus’ sight.

“Bulkhead.” The green mech jumped at Prime’s voice, “I would appreciate it if you did not give my fuel to anyone behind my back.” Miko burst out laughing at the ashamed look on Bulk’s face. He pulled off the look of a child that had been caught wetting the bed perfectly. 

“Yes, sir,” He mumbled. He couldn’t help but laugh at the pun imbedded within the words. Prime only smiled back ever so slightly. Miko, now fully awake, was nearly falling over from laughter.

“What in Sam’s hill are you lot doing?” Instantly the laughter stopped, though with some difficulty on Miko and Bulkhead’s part as the child was forced to bit her hand to muffle the noise, furthering the bot’s amusement. Fowler threw up his hands. “Don’t stop on my account. You all looked like you’re having a good time for once.” Optimus sat up too his full height.

“What can I do for you, Agent Fowler?” The special Agent beckoned him over.

“Hate to interrupt you, but I need to speak to you and the Doc.” Optimus nodded, handing his bowl to Bulkhead and placing his now empty cube of Energon on a nearby table to recycle later.

“Arcee,” He was already gathering Ratchet into his arms. “Please grab the IV and bring it to my office.” She nodded, snagging the blanket as well when it slid from Ratchet’s form. He attempted to grab it but missed by mere inches. The femme unhooked the Energon bag and placed it on Ratchet’s lap before taking the stand to the Prime’s private office. Fowler trotted along side. Ratchet grunted when Optimus began moving, his back and chest aching. He wrapped his arms about the Prime’s neck to do what he could to relieve some of his weight, despite knowing he weighed almost nothing to Optimus. Once they reached the back office, Optimus shifted Ratchet in his arms to palm open the lock for the door. It slid open at his touch. Fowler climbed the set of stairs that ran along the back of the Prime’s desk, watching as Arcee and Optimus eased Ratchet into a chair and set the IV stand back up. The medic grabbed the blanket from Arcee, rearranging it in his lap. He did not enjoy being carried about the base and helped in everything he did. He accepted it, however, knowing he could not do any of it on his own. Once the mech was situated, Arcee left the three to join the others, the door sliding shut behind her. 

Optimus turned to Fowler. The agent needed no prompting, understanding Cybertronian body language by now. “A lot has changed, Prime,” He sighed, glancing at Ratchet, “My superiors and I have discussed it and we believe it would be beneficial for you to speak directly to them, without a middle man.” Prime nodded, understanding. 

“I as well?” Ratchet inquired. Fowler shook his head.

“No, but I wanted to discuss a few things with the both of you beforehand. It’s something I’m fairly sure Ratch’d want to hear personally, otherwise I wouldn’t have had you bring the Doc in here too, seeing as it’s a little harder for him to get about.”

“Please, Agent Fowler,” Ratchet’s tenor voice resonated in his intakes, creating a slight tremor, “Refrain from speaking about me as if I’m not here. It’s degrading.”

“Sorry,” Fowler mumbled, his main focus on queuing up a document on his computer. “I didn’t mean to offend.” Ratchet grunted, appreciating the apology. “Remember this?” Fowler pointed to the screen. A ten page document was projected back, containing a detailed list of requested medical supplies.

“How could I not?” Ratchet mumbled, irritated as the Government official questioned his memory, “That is the list I sent you a month ago. I still have yet to receive anything.” Fowler sighed, opening a second document. 

“This,” He muttered, already stepping back towards Prime in anticipation for the medic’s reaction, “Is the list of the approved supplies.” The document was butchered down to a mere three pages, amounts reduced, and little explanation was given.

“What?!” Ratchet grabbed at his chest the moment the shout left his mouth, instantly regretting his outburst. The others gave him a moment to recover as he gasped in air through every exposed vent. The vents on the sides of his chest were blocked by bandages, making it harder to cool his systems effectively. Once he recovered, his intended rant began again. “There is hardly enough there to sustain us for a few months if at peak efficiency, much less in combat or with my current condition. I need those alloys for replacement parts. Bulkhead’s secondary transistor is nearly fried, and Arcee’s knee joint desperately needs replacing as well as the hydraulics in her pedes. And without proper medicine I will be nothing but a useless pile of metal within a few weeks. How do those glitches assume we will survive without at least a decent amount of supplies? We had more than this meager slag even when Cybertron was on its last leg.” Both Fowler and Optimus waited before speaking, making sure they were not cutting off Ratchet, an act which would only serve to anger him further. Both thanked Primus that he currently had nothing to throw. 

“I know, Ratch,” Fowler attempted to sooth, “That’s what I’m trying to fix. I didn’t want you to be at the meeting because it may be too long for you to handle right now and I worry about your temper.” Ratchet made to retort but Optimus waved him down, “But I do want your medical opinion before we go into this.” The medic took a calming breath, fiddling with the line in his left venous port on his arm. It had grown uncomfortable and would need to be moved to his right arm soon. It took a moment, but he eventually quelled the anger boiling in his systems.

“Ratchet could actually be a great asset during this meeting,” Optimus provided, “If he feels up for it.” Fowler cocked his head. Ratchet saw fit to explain.

“I admit I have a temper, Agent Fowler,” He began, “But I do know how and when to control it. I simply choose not to. I was a politician for a short time before the war, and despite the fact that I did little to sway the councils’ thinking, I have researched your government and understand the inner workings of it quiet well.” Fowler tapped his chin, considering.

“He knows more about government and persuasion than myself,” Prime reaffirmed, “I may have studied history extensively but never looked into politics until the war began. Even then, it was never my strong point.” 

The agent’s brow rose mockingly. “Politics, huh? Never took you for the ruling type,” He teased. 

Ratchet huffed in an undignified manner, “I hardly enjoyed it. Cybertron’s class system was ruthless, and by attempting to convince the council to ease the restrictions and abolish the gladiator rings, I became somewhat of an outcast. Not that I minded much. Besides, I never ‘ruled’ anything. I was the minister of health. I had very little power.” 

“Very well,” Fowler sighed, “I’ll arrange the meeting for some time next week.”

Ratchet yawned, mimicking the human gesture unconsciously. Fowler smiled, remembering fondly back to when he’d first met the bots. Neither party had been too pleased about their situation but Optimus had made the best of it. Fowler, however, had only seen the mechs as imposing, threatening, and had acted defensively. He’d been aggressive, bothering to learn very little of their customs. There had been several times when one group had unintentionally offended the other. Fowler remembered vividly how, early on, a young scientist had requested innocently to see Ratchet spark when the medic was explaining Cybertronian anatomy. If it weren’t for Optimus, the young man would be nothing but a stain on the wall. As it was, it had taken the Prime’s full strength to restrain the medic. It was only after the incident that the humans learned that the spark was the very embodiment of the Cybertronian soul and was the most sacred thing each possessed. It was an insult of the highest degree to ask to see one’s spark without the other first offering. After the incident, both parties had seen fit to warn the others about such possible insults.

“Agent Fowler,” Will glanced back up, ripped from his mussing by Ratchet’s gruff voice. “Would you explain a human custom to me? I believe Miko referred to it as Christmas.” Fowler shook his head, chuckling slightly. He’s been asked about human culture but never by the grouchy medic.

“Ah,” He scratched at the back of his neck, “What do you want to know?”

“I’ve looked it up and the internet spoke greatly in a religious context, but I know that Miko does not subscribe to your culture’s Christianity. She also mentioned gifts?” Fowler nodded, understanding his confusion. Over the centuries, many human traditions had become so muddled in their history and customs that they were hard to understand, while due to their longer life spans and more advanced technology, Cybertronian holidays and cultures had remained virtually the same throughout the eons. 

“Not many people see Christmas as solely religious anymore,” he explained, “Most of us, like myself, and most likely all of the children, take it as an opportunity to be thankful for the family and friends that we have and share that with them through presents.” 

Ratchet pulled the blanket back up as it had begun to slide down again. The flimsy tarp was uncomfortably slick and produced large amounts of static when he moved it, electricity he was grateful he could not feel through the dead sensors in his legs. “What kind of gifts?”

Fowler laughed openly, “Thinking of getting the other’s something, Doc?” The medic gave him a wry look, fringing on irritation, “It depends on the person. Nothing too big, just something that you know they would enjoy.” Ratchet nodded. His curiosity was truly endearing. Fowler paused. That was not a word he would have ever associated with the medic… “Do you have any similar holiday back on Cybertron?”

Optimus folded his hands in his lap, shaking his head. “Not particularly. When two mechs start courting, they will often give each other gifts to show that they are serious. But it is standard for those to be hand crafted, so even that tradition died down during the war, when resources were low. Many of our customs were abandoned after centuries of destruction.” Fowler hummed. It was a sad truth that many cultures had faced before, and with the amount the bots had traveled to alien worlds over the last millennia, it was not unexpected. 

“Now,” The special agent cleared his throat, attempting to pull the two back to more pressing matters, “I know this is a way off, but it’s a possibility we need to plan for. One that I pray we won’t have to consider, but the chances are high, and I need to know what we’re planning.” Both Optimus and Ratchet raised their brows expectantly, staring down at the special agent. 

“Go on, Agent Fowler,” Optimus encouraged, “We are listening.”

He breathed deeply, hunching his shoulders and putting on a brave face. “I don’t know what traditions you have on Cybertron but we need to think about a burial.” He held up a hand before either bot could interject. “We don’t have the resources for a cremation and as your friend, I’m averse to melting anyone down.”

“You mean, melting me down.” Ratchet snapped. Fowler could only nod. 

“On Cybertron,” Optimus started, “It was fairly common to melt a mech’s armor into a vase or sculpture, but the protoform has such a high melting point that it was illogical.” He glanced down, the topic a difficult one to discuss. “Ratchet and I discussed many years ago, the possibility of launching a frame into space. However, without our ship, that possibility has been exhausted. I believe the best option now is a simple burial, near the base.”

“Ah-ah,” Ratchet tithed, “I get a say in this too.”

“Of course,” Optimus nodded, “We did not intend to leave you out of the conversation. You have the final say.”

“I better,” He huffed, “And I’m not too keen on being eternally surrounded by organic dirt.” Fowler couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Ratchet,” Optimus shook his head, a hint of glee in his voice, “You will be in the Well of Allsparks, your frame will be buried.” 

“I know that,” He crossed his arms, “But the principle still stands. I like my frame clean, thank you very much.”

Fowler scratched at his chin, “What about a coffin? You’d be shielded from the dirt but could still be buried.”

Ratchet sighed, feeling his entire form begin to ache, “That would be better, but I’d still like to see if we can figure anything else out.”

“Is there anything else you want done, Ratchet? I know it was common to remove helm kibble in Polyhex.” Optimus smiled softly, still distressed by the topic but willing to endure. Ratchet shrugged, pondering.

“Honestly,” He sighed, “I’ve never subscribed to family keeping pieces of a mech but if you want to keep my chevron I won’t object. Though, I would appreciate having my spark chamber removed before I’m jammed in the ground.”

Fowler cocked his head, “Spark chamber?”

“Our sparks are surrounded by much stronger metal than that of our armor. My spark will have extinguished but the spark chamber is still very significant, and personal.” He nodded, understanding. There was a lot about Cybertronian physiology and culture that Fowler couldn’t even begin to understand, but by the look in both Cybertronian’s optics, he could tell that this was important. Ratchet sighed, rubbing at his face plates. “Now, I’d like to get to my quarter before I fall into recharge where I’m sitting.”

“Your quarters?” Prime stood to help him.

“I’ve recharged in the medibay enough recently for one vorn, thank you very much.” Prime chucked, easing Ratchet back into his arms. Fowler watched them leave, a smile sneaking across his features.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be adding a title to each chapter if I can think of one. If not... Feel free to suggest one.


	7. Chapter 7

Bulkhead dodged, moving from one lumbering foot to the other. The next punch came too quickly to dodge, but the ex-wrecker managed to move just enough so that the blow only grazed his shoulder. The paint scratched with a whine. Bulk grunted, throwing a punch of his own. He missed, however, as his opponent was simply too quick.

A third blow hit his chest, this one much stronger. A successive kick followed, connecting with his jaw, sending him flying back. He connected with the wall with a shout. His head spun, but he pulled himself up none the less. This was humiliating. He was a wrecker for Primus’ sake. How was such a youngling besting him?

With a roar he charged, arm swinging back in anticipation and momentum flinging him forward. His opponent panicked, turning until his back was to Bulkhead, sensitive and fragile doorwings barred. The green mech dug his heals into the cement, trying desperately to stop. Instead he fell forward. On instinct he held his hands out to break his fall. Unfortunately, his right one was mid-transformation from a wrecking ball back to a hand when it made contact with the ground. He cried out, pain shooting up his arm as cogs where bent and cables strained.

Bumblebee was at his side in an instant, whirring and chirping out his concern. He helped the Wrecker to his feet, still apologizing profusely. Bulk waved him down, cradling his injured hand to his chest plates. It throbbed, but by the lack of fluids, no energon lines had been cut. Though it did look rather gruesome, caught in the transformation sequence as it was.

“Chill, Bee,” He grunted, hefting himself upright, “Not your fault. But if you keep turning your back like that you’re going to get your doorwings slagged.” The scout beeped, apologizing for his blunder. Bulkhead shook his helm, mumbling about going to medbay before he left Bee to continue the practice session alone.

Arcee, perched at the monitors, glanced back as the larger bot’s steps echoed about the main room. She grimaced at the sight of his hand, knowing being caught like that was particularly painful. “Ratch in medbay?” He asked, coming to stand behind her.

She nodded, “Yeah, but I think he fell into recharge. He was snoring earlier.” Miko glanced up from her videogame, raising a brow at the cybertonians.

“You guys snore?” Bulkhead brushed off her question with a shrug. She huffed, but turned back to her game. Bulkhead patted Arcee on the shoulder with his good hand before turning for the medbay.

Sure enough, Ratchet was soundly in recharge, head lulled to the side, resting on his shoulder platting. He’d begun to slide out of his chair as well and his thermal blanket lay in a heap at his pedes. Bulkhead smiled, crouching next to the older Autobot. The repairs his systems had to undergo took a lot of energy, so it was not uncommon to find him in such a state as of late. Bulk pulled the blanket back up to cover his lap, then placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. 

“Ratch,” He whispered, “I need you up.” The medic mumbled incoherently. He was never one to online quickly. Bulkhead shook his shoulder again. He didn’t mean to rush him but his hand really hurt. Finally, Ratchet pried his optics open and glared at Bulkhead. Unfortunately, when he made to shift, his precarious position on the chair sent him sliding forward. With a squeak, he scrambled desperately for the arm rests, attempting to halt his fall. Thankfully, Bulkhead managed to catch him before his aft slid completely free of the chair.

“I’ve got ya’,” He assured, hauling the lighter mech back into his seat. Ratchet casually dusted himself off, attempting to retain some dignity.

“Well,” He huffed, “That’s one way to wake up. Now, what’d you need?” Bulkhead simply held up his damaged hand. As Ratchet’s face grew red, the wrecker braced himself for the impending string of curses that usually accompanied such injuries. None came. Instead the medic cycled air heavily and returned to his normally white faceplate color. He grabbed Bulkhead’s hand, twisting it this way and that to get a better look before reaching into a nearby drawer for tools. Bulk sat patiently as he worked, wincing every now and then when Ratchet’s shaky hands caught on a wire. He knew better than to speak up, however. He’d always been fascinated by watching the medic work so rarely interrupted him, but this silence was unnatural, heavy, uncomfortable. 

“You okay, Ratch?” The response was instantaneous. Ratchet stopped his work, placing his tools in his lap but never glancing up. Bulk could tell, however, that he was glaring.

“I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” He grumbled, voice dangerously low, a tone he typically reserved for particularly naughty patients. Bulkhead was taken aback.

“Well I – I just-” He stuttered, attempting desperately to find a way to explain himself. He sighed, collecting his thoughts and words before continuing, “You didn’t even yell at me. Was just a bit odd is all.” The other nodded, resuming the task of forcefully twisting Bulkhead’s hand back into shape.

“It’s nothing,” He muttered, “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m going to worry whether you tell me to or not.” Bulkhead tilted his helm to better see Ratchet’s optics as he was hunched over the Wrecker. “Might as well get it off your chest.” Ratchet sighed, evidently annoyed but by the way his shoulders drooped Bulkhead knew he had won. 

“I just-“ He paused, compiling his thoughts. Finally finished, he placed his tools aside and returned Bulkhead’s gaze. “I’ve been thinking, and I haven’t always been the nicest bot. My bed-side manner stinks and I’m not much more than a grouch.”

Bulk shook his head. “That’s not true, Ratch,” He assured, flexing his hand to test out the joints. “Anyway, we know you mean well. Shouting means you care and that the injury is minor. When you go quiet is when we worry.” 

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Maybe this whole imminent death thing is getting to me, but – I just…” He stuttered, not knowing how to express his emotions. Instead he pointed at Bulk’s hands giving it a slight tap. “Transform that for me.” Bulk did as asked. “Any pain?” He shook his head, “Good. No excessive strain for the next two days, and your auto repairs should take care of the rest.” The wrecker sighed, he wasn’t going to get anymore out of the medic today. Instead he leaned in closer and inhaled. Ratchet leaned back, pressing into the back of his chair, staring quizzically at Bulkhead. The wrecker pulled away suddenly, scrunching up his face plates. 

“When was the last time you visited the wash racks?”

Ratchet glared, “Are you calling me smelly?” Bulk nodded. Now, normally teasing the Hatchet would be a bad idea, but without the ability to walk and his diminished aim, the medic posed little physical threat. “You try showering when your legs act more like broken tension cables than functioning limbs.”

Bulk waved him down. “Yeah, yeah.” He turned towards the rec-room, shouting through the open medbay door, “Hey, Miko! We’ve got an ambulance in here in need of a wash.”

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Something fell over with a crash in her mad scramble to get to the medbay. With a grunt of surprise and protest, Ratchet was hoisted into Bulkhead’s arms.

“Grab the solvent, Miko,” Bulkhead called over his shoulder as he made his way towards the wash racks. Ratchet snorted but clung to Bulk’s neck anyway, relenting. Miko trotted behind, bucket and soap in hand.

Bulkhead eased Ratchet to the floor, setting him on the smooth soap stained tiles. The medic’s feet slid to an awkward angle, his hips tilted and his arms his only support besides the cold concrete at his back. Uncomfortable, but it would do for now. Instantly Bulk set about hosing Ratchet down while Miko gathered supplies. He kept the hose nozzle close to the other mech’s plates to decrease his discomfort as much as possible. Within a kilk, Ratchet was coated from helm to pede in frothy soap bubbles. At some point he had snatched a sponge from Bulkhead and begun to work on areas he could reach. It was disconcerting to have another mech, a friend none the less, scrub at your aft, whether or not you could feel it.

Once, Miko had slipped in the mess they’d made, falling on her backside with a squeak. This had earned her a hearty chuckle from both mechs. She’d slipped several times more after that, deciding that the inevitable bruise on her back was worth watching the usually down medic laugh. Unfortunately, he’d caught onto her intentions ratchet quickly and simply flicked her over with a large finger after the third fall, stating that he’d be the one to hear her complain if she truly hurt herself. 

As the bath came to a close, Optimus peeked inside the wash racks. He smiled warmly at the sight. 

He cleared his intakes to gain his comrades’’ attentions. “I hate to interrupt, but our meeting is in just under a joor, Ratchet.” The medic nodded.

“I’ll be there, don’t worry.” He swatted at Bulkhead when the mech brought the hose up to his chin. “Squeaky clean, too.”

\--

“The demands are simply too high. That many materials and supplies cost a fortune. We can’t throw those kinds of recourses at you.” Ratchet pinched the bridge of his chevron in frustration. The conference had already lasted far longer than he had hoped and his patients, small as they were, were wearing thin.

“General,” The medic focused on keeping his voice calm and level, “When we originally were granted asylum on your planet and in your country our two races signed an agreement that all supplies necessary for survival would be provided within the bounds that we provided our continued protection to your world from the Decepticon threat.” He paused, watching the general’s stoic expression. “We have provided our end of the bargain.”

The man scoffed, “and there’s the issue.” Both Ratchet and Optimus glanced at one and other. Confusion lacing one’s expression while barely concealed anger buried itself within the other’s. “The supplies you are demanding have never been necessary in the past. Why would they be now? Why should we tolerate such an influx?”

The general jumped in his seat when Prime’s strong baritone resonated through the speakers. “Circumstances have changed, General Hallen.”

Hallen crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine then. If you want more, you need to provide more.”

“I have already made it explicitly clear that I will not provide the human race with Cybertronian military technology.” Fowler tapped on the desk, silently letting the General know that he agreed with Optimus’ decision.

“Proof, then,” He drawled, “How do we know you’re not just haggling for hand outs?”

“Proof?!” All eyes turned to Ratchet as the medic pushed himself to full height in his chair. Optimus motioned for him to calm, sending a warning glare his way, but it was already too late. The Hatchet was free and would not be subdued so easily. “You want proof? Is it not enough proof that throughout this discussion I have been confined to a chair and had to be carried in here? Do I need to provide medical scans of my backstrut because I can tell you without them that it is well and truly broken. How about the others? I am the medic of this team; I know when my patients are in need of repairs without some human glitch telling me how to do my job.”

“Ratchet!” Optimus slammed a hand against his desk, “That is enough!”

“I’m not done, Prime. They’ll never understand unless we force them to.” The short reprieve, however, had allowed his body to catch up with his emotions. Before he could continue his frame gave a series of quick shutters, tensing and releasing in rapid succession. His optics clenched shut and his ventilations came in shallow gasps. Occasionally the lights adorning his form would sputter on only to quickly shut off again. Optimus leapt from his chair, ignoring the confused cries of Hallen, to kneel in front of the medic, holding his hands as he rode out the tremors.

“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?!” The general’s knuckles had faded to white, clenched against the edge of his desk.

Fowler stepped forward, making a point of leaving the struggling medic in plain sight. “You wanted proof, sir?” The special agent ground out, “Well there it is. This is a glitch, a seizure. A mild one at that.” The general glanced between the two Autobots with an unreadable expression. “He was taking medicine to suppress them but since we don’t have the supplies…” He trailed off, allowing the more stubborn man to come to his own conclusions.

Eventually Ratchet’s tremors slowed, his breathing evened out and his optics came back online, duller than they were before. He sat, tense and still, grasping desperately to Optimus’ hands while his systems stabilized. When they finally did, he slumped back in his chair, utterly exhausted.

After giving Ratchet a moment to settle, Prime pulled a cube of medical grade energon from his subspace and placed it in the medic’s shaking servos. Ratchet shook his head, mumbling. “Tanks still churning.”

Optimus smiled sadly, “I can go get the IV if you prefer.” Immediately, the white mech lifted the cube to his lips, some of the florescent liquid spilling down his chin when his hands jerked.

General Hallen cleared his throat, gaining back attention. “I believe I’ve seen all that I need to at the current time. Bill, you and I can talk about this later.” With that the camera shut off.

“Well,” Fowler chortled, “Either we’ve won the argument or he’s so embarrassed that he’ll convince the higher ups to help just so he doesn’t have to face that again.”

Ratchet coughed, “Glad I could be of service, Agent Fowler. But you lied. I am still medicated for seizures. That was an extreme case.”

The human nodded. “He doesn’t need to know that.”

Optimus shook his head, taking the now empty cube to place on his desk and lifting Ratchet into his arms. The smaller mech didn’t even bother to attempt to hold on. “Come, Old Friend. Let’s get you back to berth for some well deserved recharge.”

Ratchet moaned, burring his face in the Prime’s chest plates. “That’s all I’ve been doing lately.”

Optimus smiled warmly. “And it’s all you need to do at the moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, Quad means four, while Para means two. Thus Quadriplegic is not having control over four limbs, or being at least partially paralyzed from the neck down. Paraplegic is having paralysis in two limbs, or being at least partially paralyzed from the lower chest down. In this, Ratchet is fully paraplegic starting at the mid waist.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few curses thrown around here and there in this chapter. Both English and Cybertronian.

The morning was quiet as Optimus strode into the main room. A gentle hum resonated about the walls from the computers. The Prime sighed, relaxing into his morning routine. He glanced down when his pede hit an unexpected obstacle. A stack of large cardboard boxes lined the back of the couch. Optimus bent down to pick up the largest of the boxes, turning it this way and that.

“Careful with that.” The big-rig turned to find Ratchet wheeling himself down the halls, the joints of his newly built wheelchair, courtesy of the US government, squeaking with every turn. Two smaller boxes, similar in make, sat in his lap. Optimus helped him to place the boxes on the floor with the others.

“You got up on your own?” Optimus sat on the couch, waiting for Ratchet to join him. 

The medic scoffed, “That was an adventure.” Prime smiled. He gestured to the stack of boxes across the room.

“What is this for?” Ratchet glanced at the Prime with a smile, one that sent shivers down his companion’s back struts.

“Christmas.” Prime shuttered his optics and rebooted his audio receptors.

“The human holiday?” He restated with a touch of disbelief. Ratchet nodded. “May I ask why?”

He was met with a shrug in response. “When on Earth.” Optimus gave his companion a skeptical look. He’d never taken an interest in human culture and made it quite clear that he detested anything the planet had to offer. Though he wasn’t about to question the sudden change of spark. It was good to see the medic at least making an effort to settle into their new home.

Ratchet pulled himself further up in his chair. “Energon?” Optimus asked as he stood to collect his own.

“Please.” The two spent the remainder of the morning together, sipping slowly at their energon and conversing quietly. Once the sun had fully risen, a drowsy Bulkhead trudged into the main room, given the stack of boxes in the corner a confused glance, thrown back a cube of energon and mumbled that he was going to pick the kids up. Soon the base was once again filled with the processor numbing heavy bass of Miko’s favorite band. Ratchet groaned, attempting to hide a smile behind his hand. The moment all three children had safely left Bulkhead’s hold he transformed and strode over to join his commander and medic on the couch. Jack followed closely behind.

“Where’s Arcee,” He asked while climbing the rungs of Ratchet’s wheelchair. The medic glared at him but made no attempt to stop the boy when he came to sit on the arm rest.

“Still recharging,” Optimus offered, “she and Bumblebee had the late shift.”

Miko bounded over, prepared to join Jack until a stern glare from the medic forced her to relocate to Bulkhead’s shoulder. “We should get them up,” She whined, “it’s Christmas Eve. And June should be here soon, so we can really get this holiday started.”

“June’s coming?” Ratchet glanced at Jack questioningly. The boy nodded.

“Yeah, she took the day off.” He raised a brow teasingly. “Why? You got a crush on my mom?” 

“Hardly,” Ratchet scoffed, his optics flashing in embarrassment, “I simply have several theories I wished to discuss with her.”

“Hey, Optimus?” The Prime glanced out down at Team Prime’s youngest human member. Rafael was prodding curiously at the pile of boxes. “What are these for?” The Prime glanced at his medic.

Ratchet was quick to answer. “You’ll find out.” As usual, he rolled his syllables, much to Miko’s amusement. “But you must wait for the others.” The Japanese girl whined and moaned, but civil minded Rafael simply found himself a place to sit on the human sized couch. 

“You seem like you feel pretty good today, Ratchet,” Jack commented off handedly. The medic nodded.

“I do actually.” He agreed, “This has its ups and downs, but today seems to be a decent morning at least.” Optimus hummed his agreement, having noticed the same pattern of behavior. Any response the children could have provided was drown out both by the sound of pede falls and the rumbling of an engine as June drove into the former missile silo. Bumblebee beeped out a greeting to the mother, moving to help unload her car while Arcee simply sat on the far side of the couch. When Bumblebee and June finally made their way over both were carrying an assortment of colorfully wrapped boxes.

“Jack and I decided to have Christmas today,” June explained as she handed several boxes to her son to be passed out, “Since Miko and Rafael won’t be here tomorrow.” 

“Bumblebee.” The scout glanced up at Ratchet questioningly. “Would you mind passing those boxes out,” He pointed to the pile across the room. “The recipients’ designations are on the top of each.”

“Are those presents?” Miko craned her neck around Bulkhead’s jaw guard in an attempt to get a better look. 

June glanced to Optimus, her expression a mixture of gratitude and awe. “You didn’t have to do anything. This is a human holiday after all.” Optimus shook his head.

“This was solely Ratchet’s doing.” He gestured both to the medic and the gifts in one broad sweeping motion. Ratchet waved them off. Once all the packages were properly distributed the children were practically bouncing where they sat. Bulkhead smiled as he now understood the meaning of the phrase “like a child at Christmas”. Several times he had to place a finger to Miko’s shoulder in a silent reminder to wait for her turn to open the boxes she’d been handed. Seeing this, Ratchet smiled.

“Miko,” He began, “Would you like to start?” The Japanese girl’s grin grew. She glanced quickly between the two gifts in her lap before smiling at June and ripping through her colorfully covered one. Wrappers went flying. Bulkhead picked a piece from his forearm. Miko held up the hard bound book, raising an eyebrow at it. June nodded when she looked up, motioning for her to open it. She did so tentatively. 

“This is where my phone went.” Her face lit up despite her chastising tone. With a grin she held out the book to the Autobots. An enlarged picture she’d taken of herself sitting on Bulkhead’s shoulder sat beautifully arranged amongst scrapbook designs. Turning the page showed several other pictures she’d taken around the base, behind them, a large Autobot badge was indented into the paper.

“It was Jack’s idea,” June smiled at her son. “Amazingly.” The teenage boy gave his mother a playful glare. June ignored him. “We have more of that paper for you, and any time you want to can print out photos at our house. I’ll even teach you how to scrapbook.” Miko was already flipping through the pages, unable to stop grinning. She whispered a string of ‘thank you’s as she handed the book to Bulkhead to pass around the room. Everyone had to admit that June’s craftsmanship in creating the book was astounding. 

“Miko,” Optimus motioned for her attention, “June has been very thoughtful. But just as with your phone, you need to be careful to keep these photographs hidden from others.” Miko gave him a thumbs up. 

“You can keep it in my quarters if you want,” Bulkhead offered and was met with several enthusiastic nods. 

“Now Ratchet’s?” Miko asked, thumbing the seams of the box. 

The medic nodded. “Yours and Bulkhead’s are the same.” The wrecker glanced down at the box in his lap before turning to Miko, initiating a silent countdown with the girl. At the same moment they both dug into the duck tape covering the top of the presents. Bulkhead tore through his like tissue paper before turning to help a struggling Miko. Together they lifted what appeared to be large metallic disks from the boxes. Miko cocked her head at the inverted bowl shape, but Bulkhead seemed to recognize instantly what it was.

“A Tomsk? Didn’t know you had any of these.” Miko watched avidly as Bulkhead placed a hand over the disk, pulling his first finger away slowly while pressing his palm down. A tone seeped from the rim of the metal, echoing in the vastness of the main room. The Japanese girl jumped back.

“It’s an instrument?!” She hurriedly mimicked the action, but got no response. Frowning, she glanced up at Ratchet, searching for an explanation. Ratchet simply pointed to the box. 

“It’s a tone synthesizer that responds to electromagnetic fields. The one Bulkhead has was given to me when I first entered the medical field. I’ve never really played it. Yours, Miko, I had to make from scratch. I will admit that it’s not quite up to the standards I would like it to be at, but it will do. Your planet lacks the metals normally used.” Miko reached into the box and pulled out a set of what looked like skeletal gloves. She slid them on so that the small metallic balls sat at the end of each finger tip. Miko was enthralled. Using both hands she produced tone after tone until the sound became a muddled field of disharmonies and screeching. 

“Nice going, Ratch,” Arcee mumbled, hands clamped over her audios. Ratchet reached across the couch and pulled Bulkhead’s synthesizer from his lap, placing it in his own. The wrecker gave him an odd look before turning to silence Miko’s own instrument. The medic gave him a grateful nod before placing his hands over the disk gently. He had the room’s attention when he began a slight plucking motion with his right hand. Staccato rhythms and melodies emerged, rising in pitch until reaching their crescendo when his left hand joined the mix, gliding above the metallic surface. As his hands shook they did little to impede the melody. Instead they created a slight vibrato that cascaded about the room.

“Wow,” Miko breathed once the music had stilled. Ratchet gave her a slight smirk before handing the instrument back to Bulkhead. The wrecker took it with a now greater air of delicacy. 

“I didn’t know you played,” Arcee mumbled from her spot on the floor.   
Ratchet shook his head. “I don’t.” He held up a hand before the others could protest. “We were required to take a music class at the medical academy. It helped to improve hand eye coordination or some other slag. Hated every moment of it but I never did forget that song. Something about the movement was soothing.”

“For hating it,” Miko pointed an accusing, still gloved finger, “You’re pretty damn good with that tom…toms…toomo.”

“Yes, yes,” Ratchet mumbled, waving her off. “Let’s move along. Shall we?” He nodded for Rafael and Bumblebee to open their gifts next. They did so with just as great enthusiasm. Rafael’s jaw dropped. 

“I-is this a laptop?” He breathed, turning the device, only about as thick as his thumb and just as light, about. Ratchet smiled.

“It has a processor ten times faster than the one you’re using now. The screen definition, audio quality and memory space are also vastly improved.” The medic was looking immensely pleased with himself. “Also,” He continued, “Both the screen and covering is made from a material nearly as hard as our armor.” For emphasis he tapped at the plating on his chest. The youngest human could only gape. Bumblebee nudged him slightly and he seemed to snap out of his daze. With great care he placed the laptop back in its box before leaping up and dashing across the room. He attached himself to Ratchet’s pede. The medic chuckled as the young boy mumbled a string of incomprehensible ‘thank you’s into the metal. Finally the boy relented, returning to his place next to Bumblebee. The scout buzzed excitedly as his human booted up his new computer, his own gift completely forgotten. June cleared her throat to get his attention. 

“Bumblebee,” she reminded, “What did you get?” The scout whirred out an exclamation as he returned to the already open box. He pulled from it several data pads. Activating one he was met with pages of scrolling text accompanied by beautiful illustrations.

“They’re stories,” Ratchet explained, “The old lore from every city state. Legends of Primus and the thirteen, the creation tales of Vos, Kaon, Polyhex and Iacon. Those illustrations are Sunstreaker’s.” He wrung his hands in his lap, pulling the thermal tarp up to its proper place. “I was hoping to wait to give these to you until you came of age as is tradition,” He mumbled, trailing off. Bumblebee warbled sadly, grateful. Ratchet simply nodded. “Jack,” He began but Bulkhead cut him off. 

“Uh-uh, Ratch,” He placed Miko on the couch before pulling a package from his subspace to hand to the medic. “Our turn.” Ratchet   
knew what was in the wrapping before he even opened it. The cane was the perfect length for someone of his stature and looked extremely sturdy. Ratchet turned it in his hands, watching as the light played across the decorative metal weaving adorning the outside.

“It’s beautiful.” He murmured as he glanced up to find both Miko and Bulkhead watching him expectantly. “Thank you. Both of you.”

“I know you can’t use it,” Bulkhead scratched to the back of his neck, “But neither of us wanted it to go to waste.”

“Thank you, Bulkhead, Miko,” Ratchet cut off before the wrecker could rant as he tended to do when nervous, “Really. It’s beautiful.” Miko and her guardian smiled broadly. “Okay, Jack,” Ratchet turned back to the boy, “Now you may open yours.” Jack looked down at the gift in his lap. Unlike everyone else, his was a simple, relatively flat, envelope. He pried open the seal and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “Tough to get something so small in there perfectly,” Ratchet mumbled, glancing down at his shaking hands. Jack grunted in understanding as he unfolded the paper.

“I don’t understand.” He passed the note to his mother, whom had joined him on Ratchet’s wheelchair. Her jaw dropped upon reading it.

“Jack,” She gasped, “This is a bank account under your name.” June stared at Ratchet. “15,000 dollars? How?”

“This is to be used to fund your higher education,” Ratchet explained, “And as for how, it seems some of the scrap I had lying around was worth quite a bit smelted down. Agent Fowler helped with the account.” Both Jack and June simply stared, unable to do much else. Finally Jack stood and placed a hand on Ratchet’s arm, the only place he could reach from his perch.

“Thank you,” He whispered. “And just so you know, I’ve been looking at degrees in Bio-mechanical engineering. That or government studies.”

Ratchet hummed, “Both worthy professions.” He pulled a datapad from a subspace attached to his wheelchair. “These are for you and Agent Fowler. They are from my own personal data banks.” June clicked on the pad. A clear recording of Iacon’s senate hall glowed from the screen. The perfectly waxed plating of tens of mechs reflected around the ovular room. One larger flyer had stood from his seat and was arguing adamantly with a smaller grounder. Every now and then the screen would flash black when Ratchet shuttered his optics.

June glanced up with a smile, shutting off the pad. “They’re mostly senate meetings, but I’ve also included several surgeries, appointments and a few of the hush-hush repairs from when I owned a back alley clinic.” June thanked him before putting away the pad and pulling out a rather large package. Ratchet took it from her. The medic unwrapped a large cotton blanket. He stretched it out over his lap, examining the patterns. Embroiders of both Earth and Cybertronian adorned the quilt. 

“Is that all handmade?” Bulkhead asked, leaning around Optimus to get a better look. 

June shook her head. “The pieces are stitched together by hand but the patterns were sent into a company that makes custom designed fabrics and quilting material.” Ratchet ran his fingers over the material before pulling the thermal tarp from his legs, allowing it to crumple to a heap next to his chair, before replacing it with the quilt. 

“Much better,” He smiled, “Thank you.” The medic motioned for Optimus to open the box in his lap. The Prime did so with a great deal of measured grace, pulling forth a large vase of ornate crystals.

“Your Polyhelxian Crystals?” Optimus practically gapped, “Ratchet, you love these.”

“Actually the yellow one’s Praxian.” Ratchet huffed, “Leave it to the Praxians to cultivate crystals that had to stand out. Doorwingers.”   
Bumblebee whirred, his doorwings fluttering. “You’re Iaconian, Bumblebee. The doorwings are because we didn’t have much in the way of kibble to upgrade you with.” Bee huffed in an ‘I knew that’ manner and Rafael giggled at his companion. 

As the last to open Ratchet’s gift, all eyes turned to Arcee. With a snort, she turned her attention to the box in her lap. Smothered in bubble wrap was a set of small cartages: fusion coils. And by the looks of it, rather well calibrated ones.

“Those should increase the yield of your blasters. I’ll install them whenever you see fit.” Arcee glanced between the coils and the medic, a distant look in her optics.

“Thanks,” She mumbled, sounding almost disappointed.

“Arcee?” Jack leapt down to nudge at her pede, chastising her silently.

“S-sorry,” She placed the coils back in their box and smiled up at Ratchet, “Really Ratchet, thank you. I’ve been wanting some upgrades for a while. We can fit them tomorrow if you feel up for it.” The medic nodded slowly.

“Everything alright, Arcee?” He asked, tone low.

“Of course,” she responded immediately, “Don’t worry about it.” With a furrowed brow, the medic let the subject drop. 

The rest of the morning was a pleasant and calm one. June passed around the remainder of the presents she had for everyone: new racing games for Bumblebee and Rafael, a riding jacket for her son, and an enormous stack of history books for Optimus. After each present was unwrapped the small group of friends and family dispersed. Each child moved to the corners of the room to enjoy their newest toys and gadgets. After helping to clean, both June and Optimus sat down to read their respective gifts. Ratchet snatched a book from Optimus’ pile and contented himself to studying the industrial revolution for the rest o the morning. June would frequently pause the recording she was watching, a transmission replacement surgery, to ask questions. Ratchet would provide what information he could. 

As evening drew near, the base had settled into a lull and was nearly silent. No one wanted to wake Ratchet, who had fallen asleep in his chair, book still in hand. Fowler had even received a hushing when he’d noisily stomped into the base as he tended to do. After settling a small conflict with the Prime, he’d joined June in watching a Cybertronian election. The differences in both culture and the treatment of the lower and working classes had shocked both adults. When viewing golden age Cybertronian society from this perspective, it was easy to understand how a civil war broke-out. They’d amassed a lengthy list of questions to ask the Prime in the future. 

Eventually the children and their guardians wandered back into the main room. Arcee and Jack fetched dinner for the humans while Bulkhead showed Bumblebee how to mix additives to energon to create a jelly like solid. 

Optimus shook Ratchet’s shoulder, he would be in need of a refueling and his daily medications. The medic groaned as he booted up. “It’s time to refuel,” Prime informed him once he was fully aware. “Bulkhead’s made something of the occasion.”

“Occasion?” Ratchet mumbled. Optimus’ optics narrowed.

“Christmas, Ratchet,” He reminded. “We’re refueling with the humans.”

The medic stared blankly for a moment before snapping to attention. “Humans,” He reiterated, “Earth, Christmas. Right, let’s go.” He quickly unlocked his wheelchair, book still in his lap. Optimus followed after him, a concerned look gracing his features. When he entered the room Ratchet was already a part of the circle of bots and humans sitting on the floor. Bulkhead had placed a tray of energon jellies and Ratchet’s medicine across the arms of his wheelchair. The medic was poking at one, a suspicious look on his face. Optimus accepted a plate from the wrecker before finding a seat in the group next to Arcee and Jack. He flared his vents, attempting to disperse the unpleasant scent of fast food. 

Patiently, he watched his comrades eat, keeping an optic specifically on Ratchet. Twice the medic stopped suddenly, glanced about looking rather confused and concerned, before resuming his meal. 

“Are you alright, Ratchet?” Optimus asked tentatively, knowing that was typically not a welcome question. 

The medic stared blankly for a moment before answering. “Fine,” he mumbled, never glancing up. Arcee and Bulkhead exchanged worried looks. Ratchet suddenly jolted, his entire frame jerking in surprise. Everyone tensed, preparing for another seizure. Instead Ratchet calmly glanced up, his optics too dim and flickering slightly. “Perhaps I’m not alright,” He remarked, amazingly calm, “My optics just shorted out.” 

“You’re blind?” Rafael asked, his french-fry dropping from his hand.

“Only temporarily,” Ratchet assured, “My systems are already working on repairing the issue. Until then my sensor net will be a fine substitute. This wasn’t an unexpected symptom.” Miko promptly shoved multiple fries into her mouth the moment she understood there was no real danger. Then proceeded to talk around them.

“You can see through your EM Field?” Ratchet shook his head but Arcee beat him to an explanation. 

“Not see,” She corrected, “sense. Most objects and life forms give off enough of an EM disturbance that we can pick up on it if we focus. Normally our EM Fields are kept tight to our frames so we aren’t distracted by every movement. Ratchet is currently expanding his.”

“Thank you for answering for me, Arcee,” Ratchet grumbled, staring blankly at a space just left of the two-wheeler’s shoulder.

“No problem,” She shrugged, teasing, “I can’t let the humans think you’re the only smart one.”

“So that’s how you know when I’m trying to play with something I shouldn’t,” Miko exclaimed. Ratchet nodded.

“My sensors are always trained on you Miko.” The medic placed two small pills into his liquid energon, stirring carefully. He downed the cube in two gulps, shuttering with the bitter after taste.

“Well,” He began, handing his tray to Bumblebee for cleaning, “Thank you all for such a pleasant day, but I am going to retire for the night.”

“See you next week, Ratchet,” Jack called after him as he disappeared about the corning. The remaining company sat in silence for a moment before Miko spoke up.

“Retire? It’s only six o’clock.”

\--

The base alarm blared loudly about the silo and down its halls. Three bots stumbled into the main room to join their Prime at the control hub. The leader of the Autobots greeted them each with a nod of his helm.

“Energon movement?” Arcee inquired.

“No,” Optimus shook his head, “A swarm of Eradicons have been sighted by troops off the banks of the dead sea. We’ve been asked to respond.” He turned to face his troops as he shut off the alarm. “This is primarily a rescue mission. Retain cover as long as possible. But the safety of the human troops comes before being covert.”

“Understood,” All three chanted, folding down for the ground bridge trip. Just as the glowing light of the bridge filled the main room, so did the sound of violent purging. Arcee immediately unfolded herself and began towards the medbay.

“You guys go. I’ll watch him.” She waved over her shoulder. “I’m better at this whole nurse maid scrap anyway.” Optimus rumbled his thanks before disappearing into the portal. Arcee pried the medbay door open as quietly as she could, wincing when they squeaked. Ratchet sat hunched over a bucket already spattered with raw, unprocessed energon. He vented heavily for a moment before his back drew in and he once again expelled what little fuel remained in his tanks. Arcee sat behind him and gently rubbed the back of neck. 

Eventually the medic leaned back, holding the bucket as far away from him as he could. “You done?” Arcee asked. He nodded, handing her the bucket to dispose of. She placed it near the wash racks before pulling an IV and a cube of medical grade from the cabinet. Ratchet grumbled lightly but didn’t protest. He desperately needed the energy. Once he’d regained some strength, Arcee helped him transfer from his chair to the medical berth. She wasn’t strong enough to fully lift the medic but her help was enough to get him comfortable.

“Anything I can do?” Arcee fetched Ratchet’s quilt from the end of the berth. 

“Not really. Just another malfunction,” He mumbled.

“Had a lot this week, huh?” She tucked the blanket up to his chin. He tilted his helm back to allow her to work around him. “Optics, audios, tanks.”

“If this is an attempt at small talk,” he grouched, “It’s pathetic.”

“Sorry,” the femme nearly snapped, “How do you suggest speaking to a dying friend?” 

“Casually,” He responded, “take out the dying part. I’m not offline yet.” Arcee shrugged, unwilling to suggest a topic. Ratchet sighed, relenting. “What did you do before the war? Sparked or Kindled? Preprogrammed?”

“Ratchet, you know my medical files.”

“My databanks are a little scrambled. Remind me.” He motioned her on with a wave of his hand, which resulted only in a subtle twitch of the blanket. 

Arcee sighed. She scooted her chair closer to the berth. “I was kindled,” she started, “Small family. My creators were factory workers. Lower-middle class. We managed to round up enough credits to send me to the academy. I never graduated. Never really knew what I wanted to do either. I joined the army when the first rebellions broke out. Not that interesting.” She shrugged. “Your turn.”

The medic shifted his shoulder slightly, attempting to get to a more comfortable position. “I was kindled by a low working class bonded pair. They came down with CCG with I was very young. Once they couldn’t work anymore we were forced to move to the black district of Polyhex. I was purely a scholarship student for both the Academy and for my advanced medical training. I was a professor for a while when I was studying for my Doctorate in neurosurgery. The Academy paid for my research and my creator’s health bills. When they died I moved to Iacon, and joined the hospital there. Met Optimus shortly before I graduated from the Academy, actually.

He encouraged me to join the senate when the unrest began to grow. Quit once he was made Prime. Hated the job. Opened my own clinic. I stayed neutral as long as I could, right up until the place was bombed.”

Arcee huffed at the irony. “Remember hearing about that. Though most people were almost thankful to the ‘cons. They forced Cybertron’s miracle medic to join our ranks.”

Ratchet scoffed, “Miracles. Load of slag, all of it. You think this is the mark of a miracle worker?” He attempted to gesture to himself but only ended up tangling his blanket and IV. Arcee chuckled as he cursed, but helped him none the less. The unmistakable sound of the ground bridge drew both of their attentions. Moments later the medbay doors opened, emitting a limping Optimus, supported by Bulkhead. The Prime sat heavily on the room’s second berth.

“What happened?” Ratchet demanded, attempting to push himself up into a sitting position. His coordination was lacking and he crashed back to the berth. He was trying again before his vents had even ceased wheezing. Bulkhead joined Arcee in keeping the medic down.

“It’s only a cut tension cable,” Optimus explained. “Arcee easily has the skills to handle it.”  
Ratchet had managed to maneuver himself into an angle where he could see Optimus while still laying. “Handle it easily my aft. If you set that brace wrong, Optimus, you’ll be left with a limp for the remainder of your functioning. I’ll be scrap before I-“ He paused, hand suddenly going to his mouth. “Oh Primus,” He breathed even as he began to dry heave.

“Bulk!” Arcee shouted, reaching for the nearest bucket, “Roll him to his side.” The wrecker did so just as Ratchet expelled what little energon he’d taken in. When the purging stopped, Bulkhead eased him back to the berth.

“Please, Ratchet,” Optimus called from his perch, “Just rest.”

“With all due respect, Prime,” Arcee stomped down a pede. “I don’t think the ‘please and thank you’ attitude is doing it.” She whirled to face Ratchet. “You do this every time something comes up and I am sick of it. You are a medic for Primus’ sake. Buck up and act like it. When you need rest, rest. If you need help, ask. And slag it, Ratchet!” She’d raised her voice to near shouting, “When we say we can handle it, we can fragging handle it. We’re not helpless, and honestly we better start learning to function without you, All Mighty Medic. Because in a few months, you won’t be here to hold our hands and feed us our energon.” Ratchet’s mouth opened and closed, his optics narrowed and his plating pressed tighter to his protoform. 

“Y-you think this is my fault?” He finally managed to stutter, “You think I want to die? To spend my mornings purging and every night plagued with nightmares of your grayed frames on the battle field because I wasn’t there to stop it?” He let his head fall back to the berth with a metallic clang. “I never asked for this, Arcee.”

The motorcycle turned her gaze to the floor, unable to look at the medic any longer. Bulkhead was glancing frantically between the two arguing bots and Optimus. Prime simply gave him a sad smile.

“No one would wish for this,” Arcee mumbled, kicking at a scrap of dirt on the silo floor. “But you haven’t done a slagging thing to stop it either.” The medic’s gaze whipped up to meet Arcee’s. “You promised you’d work on a cure, Ratch. Instead you built a new computer for Rafael and spent Primus knows how long assembling new fusion coils for my guns. You promised us two more years of your grump. At this rate, we’ll be lucky to get a measly six months.” Ratchet was silent, his optics downcast and his form slumped as Arcee fled the medbay. Bulkhead made to follow but Optimus stopped him.

“Give her some time alone, Bulkhead. We all handle stress differently.” The wrecker nodded. He glanced down at Ratchet. The medic had turned his helm towards the wall.

“You okay, Ratch?” The medic forcefully shrugged off the hand placed on his shoulder.

“Go see to Optimus, Bulkhead.” His voice was nearly at a whisper. With a heaved sigh, the green mech did as instructed, leaving Ratchet to the silence.

-

“Bumblebee!” The scout glanced up from his place at the monitors. June waved at him frantically as she nearly stumbled out of her car. Datapads spilled out of her arms when she attempted to adjust her shirt. “Bumblebee, where’s Ratchet? I have to talk to him.”

Bumblebee’s buzz turned into a clipped shriek of surprise as the medbay door squeaked open and Arcee stomped out. She glowered down at June, taking notice of the datapads in her arms.

“I wouldn’t bother,” she grumbled, “He’s not a very mature conversationalist at the moment.”

“What happened?” June asked, striding towards the medbay anyway. “This is important.”

“Ask Ratchet,” Arcee snapped as she turned towards the hall leading to her quarters, “He’d be much more willing to tell you just what an aft I am.” With that she disappeared around the corner. Bumblebee simply shrugged at June’s inquisitive glance. The nurse returned the gesture before entering the medbay.

The atmosphere gained an almost crushing amount of weight between the common’s room and the medbay. June glanced between the silent occupants. The medbay smelled pungent with purged energon and burnt whirring from the arch welder Bulkhead held to Optimus’ leg. The nurse’s brow furrowed when she caught sight of Ratchet. He’d bunched up his quilt until it lay in a heap on top of his chest. His IV had been ripped out and flung a good distance away. Mature indeed, June thought as she approached. She briefly caught Optimus’ empathetic look as she climbed to the desk she’d been provided on the observation deck. 

“Ratch-” The medic’s helm swiveled back to face her before she could get the remainder of his designation. 

“Can’t you see I’m busy being a gearstick sucking-“ 

“Ratchet!” Optimus’ optics widened at the language.

“What?!” The medic snapped back, “You are not my creator, and I am beyond old enough to use such language. What are you going to do? Send me to my room? We don’t even have a brig!” 

“Wow,” June took a step forward, leaning against the railing as her face scrunched, “Arcee was right; you really are being a fucking jackass.”

“A Donkey…?” Ratchet trailed off, confusion mixing with his angered expression. “Human colloquialisms make no sense.” 

“That wasn’t a colloquialism,” June snapped, “Now, if you’ll listen to me for a mo-“

“I am busy.” The medic turned back to face the wall, tossing June’s quilt at her as he did so.

“Oh?” June had to forcefully restrain herself from stomping a foot as her son would commonly do when being ignored. “Doing what?”

“How was it you put it?” Ratchet hissed, “Oh, right. Being a fucking jackass.”

June gapped. She’d heard the Autobots swear plenty but never in English. Commonly they would resort back to the sharp tones and clicks of their native language. “I don’t care what your problem is today; I need you to look these over.”

Ratchet threw his hands up. “Would someone please put me back in my chair so I can at least have the dignity of wallowing in my own quarters?”

Optimus made to stand but June forced him back down with an angry and demanding gesture. “Don’t you dare, Prime.” The normally composed commander looked greatly distressed by the shouting match. Bulkhead on the other hand, glued to his spot kneeling on the floor, looked about ready to pee his platting.

“Out!” Ratchet screeched, his hissy-fit turning into a full blown temper tantrum, “All of you! Get your afts out of my medbay!” Before anyone could so much as twitch, June threw down a datapad, the glass device shattering on the hard, concrete floor.

“I have a cure!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to explain for a moment why I chose Christmas. Mostly it was because the US is a predominantly Roman Catholic country. Second, I wanted a holiday that could be celebrated without religious contexts. I’ve mentioned this during the story in previous chapters, hopefully it came across.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some slight warnings for this chapter: There is some minor past slash mentioned. But honestly it could be seen as friendship.

The silence was instant. All optics locked on June. Her heavy, exasperated breathing resonated about the medbay and blood trickled from the gash in her ankle where the glass had nicked her. The nurse slumped into the nearest seat, drained by the confrontation. 

“W-what did you say?” Ratchet breathed, the words nearly dying in his throat.

The nurse drew in a heavy breath. “I think I may have a cure.” Ratchet’s hand went to his helm, gripping the rim of his chevron as a spell of dizziness swept through his systems. Optimus patted Bulkhead’s shoulder as he stood. He gently tested the strength of the weld on his shin before picking up the toppled IV. Ratchet allowed him to ease it back into his intravenous port and gratefully accepted the aid in sitting up. The Prime sat on the berth behind the medic, allowing him to lean on his chest for support. He gently ran a hand down the white platting of Ratchet’s arm. 

Bulkhead heaved himself from the floor. “I’m gonna go check on ‘Cee.”

“Bulk?” The wrecker turned. Ratchet didn’t meet his gaze, instead he stared at the floor with flickering optics.

“I’ll tell her, Ratch,” He mumbled. With that he was gone, the medbay doors squeaking shut behind him.

“June,” Ratchet finally spoke, “Even if you have a cure, which I find myself doubting, it’s far too late.” June grabbed up one of her datapads, brushing the damaged one aside with her foot. The information on the device transferred wirelessly to a larger pad. Optimus held it up for the medic.

“Just look over my idea.” Ratchet shook his helm but did so anyway. After a moment of skimming the text he shuttered his optics, pinching the platting between his optics.

“I’ve already tried the use of a CR chamber,” He sighed, “The symptoms were alleviated for a short period. But when they returned they were exasperated beyond repair.” June flicked a hand dismissively.

“You only ever tried that at the early stages, never like this.” Ratchet shook his head, reading further.

“Even if that did make a difference, we don’t have the supplies.” Optimus squeezed Ratchet’s arm.

“If it means your life,” Prime assured, “We will find a way to acquire the supplies.” Ratchet tilted his chin up to look at Optimus. 

“My life is not worth providing the humans with more ways to kill themselves. And besides, the technology may not exist on this world. We’d have to return to the Ark for the CR chamber. I’m not even sure the nanites in storage are active anymore.”

“Ark?” June scrolled through her notes. 

“Our ship,” Optimus explained, “It is buried far off the cost of Greenland, but remains mostly intact.”

June hummed in acknowledgement. “I’m sure you have much more to trade that weaponry. You’re a brilliant race. Far more advanced that we are.”

Ratchet arched his back against Optimus’ chest. He grunted slightly as the ache only increased. Prime placed an arm behind the medic’s back as he hoisted him further up. “Better?” He whispered. Ratchet shook his helm.

“Not much to be done. I need a clear processor and any sensor dampener strong enough will give me just the opposite.” Optimus hummed, desperately wishing he could help his eldest friend, but not sure what he could do. “As far as technology,” Ratchet hummed, returning to the previous conversation. “I’m unwilling to share any medical knowledge. There’s a reason I didn’t want them prodding at me. Just look what MECH did with the information.”

“Star charts and some knowledge on astrophysics may be a fair trade,” Optimus suggested. June hummed, nodding. Humans are a curious species. Almost any information based trade would do if it were presented properly. 

“I will have to read your theory more throughouly before deciding on a course of actions, June.” Ratchet mumbled, skimming the text once again. “I am still highly doubtful that any of this will work. Where did you even get this idea from?”

“I was reading an article about a young girl that survived rabies,” June replied, “The virus attacks the nervous system. The girl wasn’t diagnosed early enough to get the preventative vaccination. Instead they put her into a medically induced coma and used a series of drugs to attack the virus and prevent it from reaching her brain.”

Ratchet nodded slowly, “I understand how that would work but I’m having a hard time seeing how the situations correlate. The issue here began in my processor.”

June held up a hand. “And we need to keep it from reaching your spark, correct? You’ve attempted putting patients in stasis before. That didn’t work; the glitch was still active, hidden from repair nanites in secluded areas of the processor. But stasis lock can’t be induced medically on the same level as it can be naturally by the frame. If my theory is correct that level of shutdown should slow the glitch enough for CR nanites to subdue it and by the point you naturally enter stasis lock the glitch would be fully exposed, vulnerable.”

“Subdue, but would the virus be cured?” Optimus asked. June sighed.

“That’s where the main risk lies. There’s a good chance that the glitch would only be brought back to its dormant stage. It could reactivate at any time.”

Ratchet huffed, “And because by then it would be adapted to my systems so thoroughly I would not perish in a matter of years or even months but over the span of a week.”

“I assume the experience would be even more unpleasant?” Optimus inquired. Ratchet nodded.

“Honestly if that would be the case, spark suffocation would be the best path. I’ve done it for patients in the past. Quick and painless. A release from the agony.”

June swallowed loudly. “Spark suffocation?” She sounded mortified.

Ratchet nodded, leveling her with dimmed optics. “While assisted suicide may be frowned upon in your culture it was common practice on Cybertron. Especially during the Great War. There were clinics set up for just that.” June shivered, but only nodded, still displeased with the idea.

“This is most likely a topic we should continue after more research has been done,” Optimus suggested, noticing Ratchet’s continued squirming. 

“Agreed,” The medic groaned. “I take back my previous aversion to painkillers. An injection would be welcome.” Optimus nodded, gently guiding the mech back down to the berth before retrieving the requested supplies. Once Ratchet was soundly in a pain-free recharge, Optimus motioned to June for her to follow. She did so with a sad smile.

Once outside, the Prime stooped as close to her level as he could. “I am obligated to ask,” he began, “how likely do you think this plan to succeed?” June sighed.

“It honestly isn’t as high of a chance as I was hoping.” Optimus nodded, expecting as much. “I’d give it about a thirty percent chance of putting the virus into a dormant state and a five percent chance of curing it completely.”

Optimus tilted forward slightly. “What would be the outcome be if neither result occurred?” 

“Most likely he’ll enter stasis lock, we’ll put him in the CR chamber, and he’ll drift away regardless. No additional pain, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“It was,” Optimus remarked, “thank you.”

-

Over the next week, Ratchet and June poured the majority of their attention and time into working towards a cure. Though the news that a solution was possible had spread throughout the base, they did their best to keep from getting anyone’s hopes too high. Ratchet and Arcee spoke little during the time the medic was awake. Most commonly the cycle-former would sit by the medic side as he recharged and disappear the moment he showed signs of wakefulness. 

The femme sat in her quarters late into the night. It was a school day the next morning, so the children had gone home early. There had been little conflict with the Decepticons recently, thus every bot in the base had almost nothing of pressing importance to do. Arcee was not the only one that had gone to her quarter’s to attempt an early recharge. A light knock on her door indicated that she was not the only one up as well.

Reluctantly Arcee stood and palmed open her quarter door. Bulkhead stood, arms crossed, giving her the closest approximation he could to a stern glare. After a moment of silence is awkwardly gestured him into her room. The moment the door was shut he spoke.

“You need to go talk to Ratchet,” He practically demanded. “He’s dying and you’ll barely look at him.” 

Arcee scoffed. “So because the mech’s dying I have no right to be mad at him.”

“No,” Bulkhead retained his level, lecturing tone, “But you don’t have the right to be mad at him simply because he’s dying.”

The femme leveled him with an appalled look before turning to sit on her berth. Bulkhead remained standing, position never changing. “He can always come and talk to me. It takes two to fight.”

“No.” This time the ex-Wrecker’s tone rose. “He’s stuck on life support, he can’t leave medbay. We tried taking him off two nights ago. His spark began to stutter the moment he was off.” Arcee’s optics widened. She opened her mouth to protest but Bulkhead held up a hand to stop her. “His systems are shutting down, Arcee. His frame can’t support his spark by itself anymore. June’s given him a little over a month. You’d know all of this if you’d been there.” 

The two-wheeler stood again, stomping down a foot. “Don’t you dare start accusing me of abandoning him!”

Bulkhead’s expression softened as his voice dropped. “He’s been asking about you, for you. Go talk to him, ‘Cee, now, while he’s coherent. In a week or two he probably won’t be. Apologies while you can.”

Arcee sighed, “Is he awake now?” Bulkhead nodded, moving out of the way of the door as Arcee slid past him. With a slight smile, he returned to his own room.

“Ratch?” The door to the medbay creaked open as Arcee peaked her head around. The medic was sitting up in bed with a datapad, cables and tubes hanging off his form from every surface. He glanced her way but never commented. Arcee pulled up a stool next to the berth. “What are you reading?” She asked.

He waved the datapad about absently, “Just checking the nanite calibration programming changes Rafael and June have made, not all that exciting really.”

Arcee hummed, nodding. “I have no idea what that means.” 

Ratchet whirled his fans in what could pass as a laugh. “The nanites for the CR chamber. They have to be calibrated to specifically target the glitch.” With a sigh Ratchet placed the datapad on his lap. “I’m not going to get anymore done tonight anyway,” he muttered, “So talk. I know you didn’t come here to watch me check calculations.”

The two-wheeler cycled her optics twice. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, helm bowed. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Ratchet grabbed Arcee’s chin, puller her face back up to his gaze. “You are young, Arcee. You know much more about death than one your age should, but you are still too young to understand how to deal with it. I watched you do the same thing with Tailgate and Cliffjumper. You were angry and resentful, but then you knew they died for a reason, for the war. Me…” He trailed off, “You have the right to be angry, Arcee. I don’t hold it against you.”

Arcee swatted his hand away. “I’m not a sparkling, Ratchet. I’m supposed to be able to deal with this without resorting to temper tantrums.”

The medic scoffed. “Look at me, Arcee. I’m more than twice your age. If it’s wrong for you to throw a fit every now and then, then I should have been scrapped eons ago for my temper. We both know I was much more of a terror last week then you were.” Arcee breathed a laugh. 

“Yeah,” Arcee chuckled, “Should have seen the look on Bulk’s face when he came running to my quarters for a place to hide.”

Ratchet joined her in a soft laugh, “I believe I saw enough to imagine it.” He coughed lightly as his intakes spasmed. Arcee waited patiently for him to compose himself. “I think we both lost it, and I know neither of us holds it against the other. So I would appreciate it if you would stop avoiding me like a scared turbo-fox.” Arcee smiled, but nodded. Ratchet let out a grunt of thanks, picking up his datapad. “Good. If I’m going to join the well I’d like to do so with as many friends by my side as possible. Now go get some recharge, I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Arcee shook her head, “I’m not really all that tired. I’ll stay with you for the night.”

-

The Prime’s office was silent save for the gentle clicking of Optimus’ fingers upon the keyboard. He typed slowly, deliberately, recording in careful words the data stored in his memory. Little emotion went into his work. His past as an Archivist dictated that he simply record, decode, and file information; never analyzing it. Normally. It was, however, extremely difficult and taxing to keep the emotion from his transcriptions when describing the events that had come to pass of late. Some he simply let slip.

A whispering rap on the door pulled the Autobot commander from his musings. He glanced up, calling for his visitor to enter. Arcee pulled the door shut behind her as quietly as possible, somewhat intimidated by the silence. Optimus motioned for her to sit as he pushed aside his datapads.

“We picked up an Autobot beacon, Sir,” She began, “We’re pretty sure it’s Wheeljack. He should be touching down in about a quarter of a cycle.” Optimus nodded, humming to himself. 

He stood, touching the battle worn armor on Arcee’s shoulder as he passed. “Then we’d better go and greet him.” She followed her leader from the office, humbly and strangely silent. Optimus paused and looked back at the femme, optics scrunched and mouth drawn into a thin line. “Is there something wrong, Arcee?” 

She wrung her hands unconsciously behind her back, wing struts twitching, “If it’s all the same to you, Prime, I’d like to stay behind. Bulkhead and Bumblebee can go with.” The Prime nodded, knowing Arcee’s reasoning without her having to voice it. Someone had to stay with Ratchet. The only time the ill ‘bot could be left alone to function without assistance was when he was recharging. Even then, there was always the risk that he would purge in his sleep and clog his vents. 

Optimus called Bulkhead and Bumblebee to him as Arcee went to take the young scout’s place in the medbay. The wrecker, it seemed, had already been informed of Wheeljack’s impending arrival and was thus nearly bouncing on his pedes. It would do him, and most likely the others, a great deal of good to have a visitor to keep their mind from their Medic’s condition. The depression that seemed to settle upon Autobot Outpost Omega One recently would not be lifted without outside aid. The extra firepower would be beneficial as well. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to ward off any Decepticon advances with one ‘bot staying behind while the others ran on half maintenanced parts. 

With a smile flashed in his comrades’ direction Optimus opened the Ground Bridge and set forth. The rocky landscape of a mountain range greeted them on the other side. The roar of the Jackhammer’s engines was already rippling through the trees. Dust and dirt clouded the air as the ship touched down. The moment the hatch opened Bulkhead rushed forward, engulfing his friend in a bear hug. Wheeljack patted his back, looking about apprehensive, slightly confused by the ex-wrecker’s overly affectionate behavior. 

“It is good to see you again, Wheeljack,” Optimus held out a hand after Bulkhead finally released the mech. He took up the Prime’s servo gladly, grip strong and proud. 

“Good to be back, I was starting to miss this mud ball.” He snorted, glancing about, “Hey, Bulk? Where’s that Miko.”

“At school, she’ll be back soon,” Bulkhead chuckled, “Missing her too? You getting attached or something, Jackie?”

The white mech shook his head, “Nah, Bulk, just wanting to make sure you’ve been good.” Optimus smiled, glad that, at least momentarily, the larger mech had forgotten his previous gloom. As Bumblebee tentatively greeted their visitor, Optimus pinged Arcee for a ground bridge. One appeared moments later. 

Prime cleared his vents loudly to gain the others’ attention. “It would be safer if we were to continue back at base.” 

“Sure, Prime.” Bulkhead seemed almost disappointed as he strode past Optimus, Wheeljack not far behind. Bumblebee glanced at Optimus, buzzing inquisitively. The leader merely shrugged, though he had a good idea of what was causing the sudden mood change. Every problem the Wrecker was facing currently was back at base. The mountain forest he was leaving was an escape of sorts, the only kind he could find at the moment. 

Once back at base, Prime found that Bulkhead had lowered his voice somewhat, despite the medibay doors being sealed. Wheeljack, still looking very perplexed, had done the same simply by example. After a moment of hushed conversation, during which Optimus and Bumblebee returned to their previous posts, Wheeljack glanced about. 

“Where’s the Doc?” He inquired. Bulkhead went silent for a moment, optics unfocused.

“Medibay,” He murmured. 

“Ah,” Jackie hummed, “Workaholic. He’s going to drop dead someday, working himself that hard. Can’t even come and say hello.”

The green mech shook his head, crossing his arms tightly to his chest, “N-no, Jackie,” he stuttered, earning him another bewildered look, “Ratch is sick.”

Wheeljack looked taken aback, but his brashness returned all too quickly, “See? Probably from overworking himself. Made his systems vulnerable to whatever sniffles they’ve got on this planet.” 

Bulkhead slumped, already exhausted by the conversation, “No, Jack, you don’t understand. He’s sick. Like, really sick. We don’t-” He vented deeply trying to keep from clicking, “We don’t think he’ll make it through the orn.” Wheeljack’s smile faded, his shoulders slumped and eyes went wide. Both Wreckers simply stared at each other for a long moment, the smaller struggling to take in the news. Finally Wheeljack sighed.

“You-” He faltered, “You think I could see him?” Bulkhead shrugged. 

“When he wakes up, yeah.”

Wheeljack paused, unsure of what to say next. Unsure whether or not to ask what was on his processor. “It’s the glitch isn’t it?” Bulkhead gapped.

“Y-yeah. How – how did you?” Something seemed to snap then in his processor. Bulkhead took a step back. “You knew him, didn’t you? Before all this? Before the war?” Despite the questioning tone, Wheeljack knew it was more of a statement than a true inquiry. 

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Look, Bulk, I don’t really want to go into this right now. Now without discussing it with him first, but let’s just say we were close, back before I joined up with the Wreckers.” The other nodded, silently understanding. 

“Come on,” He pulled at the White mech’s arm, “Let’s go see if he’s up.” Wheeljack smiled, grateful, and followed into the medbay. He stood at the door for a moment, taking in the sight, while Bulkhead went to talk in hushed tones to Arcee. The cycle-former nodded before standing and taking her leave. Bulkhead patted the stool next to him, beckoning his comrade over. The latter sat, his every movement slow and deliberate, as if he feared waking the recharging mech on the berth. 

“Its okay, Jackie,” Bulk soothed, “The medicine he’s taking makes him recharge pretty deeply. You won’t wake him.” Wheeljack sighed, placing his head in his hands and closing his optics.

“Oh, Ratchet,” He mumbled into his palms. A large hand landed on his back and he leaned into the comfort, grateful for such a friend. “I’ll tell you this, Bulk,” He murmured, “I’ve got a pit of a lot of apologizing to fit into just a few megacycles.” 

“I know you don’t want to tell me right now,” Bulk ran his hand over the warm metal of Wheelljack’s back, “But if you do want to talk, I’m here.”

The wrecker glanced up, meeting his friend’s gaze, “Same goes for you, Bulk. I can already tell you’ve had a pit of a time with this.” A rustle from the berth below them drew the wreckers’ attention. Ratchet stirred, tugging lightly on the IV with a shaky hand. Bulkhead leaned forward to help him relieve some tension on the line. Once resettled he glanced up, optics filled with recharge and vents sighing softly, attempting to wake his lethargic systems. 

"Hey, Bulk,” he mumbled, optics roaming the room but not truly comprehending. His arm twitched slightly for a moment before he managed to calm his systems. 

“Hey yah, Ratch,” Bulk smiled, “You’ve got a visitor.” He shuttered his optics several times before he seemed to comprehend the sentence. 

“Optic’s not working so well today,” He coughed, voice horse, “Who-“

Wheeljack smiled, taking Ratchet’s hand into his own, “It’s me, Ratch.” The medic’s hand twitched in his hold. His optics scrunched up and he tensed, displeased with the answer.

“Wheeljack,” He muttered, tone cold. The mech in question turned to glance at Bulkhead, who quickly got the message and turned to leave. Ratchet coughed several times before finally regaining his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Please, Doc,” Ratchet grimaced at the name, “I just wanna talk.”

“About?” His voice was rough and full of static. Wheeljack’s intakes hitched slightly every time he shuttered or coughed. Wheeljack shrugged.

“You tell me. You probably know better what we need to discuss than I do.” The Wrecker rubbed at his arm, nervous. He was not particularly adept at such conversation. 

“Fine,” Ratchet huffed. “Help me sit up and we can talk.” Wheeljack slid an arm under the medic’s back and neck, hoisting him up to prop his back on the berths inclination. Ratchet grunted, his face pulling back into a grimace, but he didn’t complain. For a moment he simply sat, vents cycling and helm bowed. Finally he glanced up at Wheeljack, face drawn and optics unfocused. “You left,” He breathed, “I needed you and you left.”

Wheeljack nodded, gaze still turned down. “I moved to Kaon. My career led me there.” He sighed. “I asked you to come with me, Ratchet. You refused.” 

“I hadn’t even had the chance to burry my creators yet when you started talking about your promotion,” Ratchet snapped. He quaked slightly as his voice rose. “I hadn’t even had the chance to morn and you wanted me to leave everything, Wheeljack.”

The wrecker grabbed Ratchet’s hand. “And you’re right,” he conceded, “I was inconsiderate. I was wrong. I was sparkles.”

“You know what’s more,” Ratchet continued, tensing slightly, “You didn’t leave to better anyone’s lives. I might have been able to forgive you then. I might have understood. But instead-”

“I’m sorry!” Wheeljack’s grip on Ratchet’s hand tightened. “I screwed up and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ratchet. And I’ve been trying to apologize for the last twelve hundred vorn. And I’d like to do that properly before you die. You don’t have to forgive me but just listen.” Ratchet was silent and so Wheeljack continued. “I left to build bombs, create weapons, and it was stupid. The moment I set pede in Kaon I knew I’d made the wrong decision. I forfeited someone I loved very much, that loved me back, to follow a career. And where did that lead? We were both miserable and my inventions contributed to the deaths of millions and to the death of our home.”

The wrecker paused, taking in a deep draft of aid and holding it for a long moment. He raised a hand when Ratchet made to speak. Eventually he let the air back out of his systems in a slow sigh, “Last time I was here I didn’t make any attempt to talk to you because I felt you didn’t want me to. I thought it would just aggravate the situation and we should just return to a relationship of anonymity. I regret that too. Now I only have a month to talk to you, to make up for everything I’ve done to you. I know you have a hard time believing it, but I truly am sorry.”

Ratchet nodded, humming. “That’s all I wanted to hear.” Wheeljack cocked his head.

“That’s it? That’s all I had to do?” 

The medic shook his head. “It’s hard to stay mad at the moment. That’s not to say you’re forgiven. I don’t think that I can ever forgive you for that, but I’m willing to move on.” Wheeljack nodded with a slight sad smile. 

“That’s all I ask for.”

-

“Why are we here again?” Wheeljack glanced around the darkened hallways of the Ark. The ship, once a magnificent vessel, was now fully submerged. The interior remained clean and dry, but the outer hull of the ship was coated in algae and surrounded by local marine wildlife. It was only thanks to internal shielding that any of the ships systems remained in working order. 

“To retrieve the medical supplies we need,” Optimus reminded over his shoulder. He was fiddling under the main control console, his massive form just barely fitting. “But we need Teletran back online to access the lower decks.”

Arcee glanced about the room, her hands on her hips. “And why couldn’t Raf just bridge us into the medbay or even the main bridge?” Optimus heaved himself up, having completed the last of the needed manual overrides. The lights adorning the computer keyboard began to flicker on. 

“This area has a less dense shielding than any other on the ship, as it is where the main groundbridge is located. Even so, it was difficult to lock on quardinates for this area. I’m also able to access Teletran One from here just as well as the bridge.” As he spoke the main systems finished booting. The screen flickered on, displaying static. 

A voice, strong and deep yet lethargic, echoed throughout the ship. “Prime?”

Optimus turned his gaze up slightly, as if facing the sound. “Good morning, Teletraan.”

The whirl of the ships fans sounded eerily like a giants breathing sigh. “It is good to hear your voice again, Prime,” Teletraan boomed, “My systems are not fully online, but I will do what I can for you.”

“We require access to medbay. We’ve come to get one of the CR chambers,” Prime explained. 

For a moment there was an awkward silence before the rooms sole door slide open with a creak. Prime motioned his team mates through. Both Arcee and Wheeljack seemed somewhat intimidated by Teletraan, or simply the idea of a semi-sentient ship, but Bulkhead appeared perfectly at home within the Ark. Which was understandable, he was the only one of the three to have spent any time serving on the star ship. Optimus too felt a strange comfort being back with the ship he’d spent so many years in, traveling the stars. 

As they walked through the decks in the direction of the medbay Optimus continued a light conversation with Teletraan. The AI appeared extremely sluggish in answering any question, almost as if he had been rudely thrust out of a deep recharge, which would serve as a rather accurate analogy. 

“Where are Ratchet and Bumblebee?” Teletraan questioned after a long bout of silence.

“Bumblebee is monitoring the groundbridge,” Optimus explained, “And keeping an optic on Ratchet as well.” The Artificial Intelligence database took far longer to find the commands to open the next door than he had the previous. All four Autobots waited patiently.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Prime,” Teletraan said once he’d found the proper line of code and allowed the ‘Bots to continue down the halls. “Why is Bumblebee watching Ratchet? And who are the two others with you. I know Bulkhead, but do not recognize the smaller Cybertronians.” 

Optimus nodded. “They are Arcee and Wheeljack.” The Prime gestured to both in kind. “They are the newest members of our team. As for Ratchet, he is unwell, that is why we are retrieving the CR Chamber, for his treatment.” A hiss of hydraulics sounded as the medbay doors slid open. They jammed partway through the sequence but were open enough for all but Bulkhead to squeeze through. He stood awkwardly outside a moment before deciding to take up a guarding stance. Not that there was much too guard the others from, it was merely something to occupy his time. 

“I am sorry, Prime,” Teletraan almost seemed to mumble, “I still do not understand, and do not believe I will. Is there anything more you require of me? I am running on very little power and do not believe I will be able to maintain the level of coherence I have thus far for long.”

“Low power supply?” Wheeljack mumbled, taking stalk of the surrounding medbay. Optimus was already prying the CR Chamber from the bolts that kept it secured in the wall. 

“Most of my power has been diverted to keeping vital functions active,” Teletraan informed, “Such as the nanite cultures for the Cryogenic Regeneration Chamber active. Prime, sir, I would appreciate it if you didn’t break the wall. I can unlock that for you.” Optimus grunted an apology and stood back while Teletraan unlocked the life saving device. “If I remain online for too long without a boost of energon,” the AI continued once the danger of being damaged was past, “I will not be able to maintain these systems in stasis for any longer than another orn.”

The Prime hefted the CR chamber over his shoulder. “Then return to Stasis, Teletraan One,” Optimus said, “We will be able to make our way back without any further assistance. Arcee, please grab five containers of repair nanites.” The two wheeler nodded and did as she was ask, passes the containers she couldn’t carry to Wheeljack. 

The Ark rumbled in a heaving sigh. “I await your return,” Teletraan’s voice grew deeper and slower as he returned to stand-by. 

“I return I shall,” Optimus assured, placing a hand against the nearest wall. “Sleep well, my friend.”

“Optimus…” Teletraan slurred, “Give Ratchet... my blessings.” 

Prime nodded. He placed a hand to his finial and readjusted the CR Chamber over his shoulder. “Rafael, bridge us home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized while posting this that I had mispelled Teletraan's name. Embarasing seeing as I'll be opening a Teletraan ask blog with a friend in the near future...  
> I apologize if I've missed correcting any of the mistakes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I accept and often encourage criticism, I’m going to ask that no one flame this chapter (not that anyone has given me any sort of grief so far). This is based pretty heavily off my own life and experiences. I hope the emotion comes across as deeply as I felt it while writing.

A brown haired head peaked from under the covers, a common hiding place for young Rafael. His hand, not far behind, slithered out to grasp at the phone about to vibrate off the nightstand. The light illuminated the makeshift blanket fort as he ducked back under. It took a moment to locate the ‘answer’ button against the blinding cell phone back light. 

“Hello?” Raf whispered just loud enough to drown out the sound of escalating voices from the floor below. 

“Hey, Raf.” Jack sounded tired beyond his years.

“Hey, uh, Jack,” Rafael mumbled. He winced as a crash rang through the floor. “Can I call you back? This is kinda a bad time.” The shouting increased, Rafael retreated further into his makeshift cave.   
“No, Raf,” Jack said, a bit more hurried in his speech, “Bee and I are coming to get you. You need to come down to base.”

Raf shook his head even though he knew Jack could not see the gesture. “I can’t, Jack. It’s past curfew and there’s no way I’d be able to sneak out right now.” A shout of frustration from the kitchen punctuated his statement.

Jack’s tone softened, lowering to nearly a whisper. “Raf,” He mumbled, “Ratchet isn’t going to make it through the night.”

“Wh-what?” Raf stuttered. “But your mom said he had at least another week before we had to put him in the CR Chamber.”

“I know. But he had a nasty seizure this morning.” Jack explained, “If my mom’s cure doesn’t work then this will be our last opportunity to talk to him.”

There was a moment of silence. “O-okay,” Raf sounded near tears, “I’ll figure something out.”

“Bee and I will wait across the street for you.” With a sigh Raf clicked off his phone and held his hands in his head and allowed himself to cry. Heavy sobs wracked his small body. He was nowhere near as attached to Ratchet as he was his own guardian, but he had come to see the elder bot as a mentor and friend.

Eventually the flow of tears dried up and Rafael drew in several deep breaths, composing himself. He had to come up with a way to get past his parents, who by the sound of it were still in the kitchen.

The young boy slipped his head out of his bedroom door, scanning the hallway. When he saw the coast was clear he slid out, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible. 

“What are you up to, Champ?” Raf whirled, nearly smashing his nose against the broad chest of his elder brother.

“M-Miguel,” He stuttered, “I didn’t know you were up.”

Miguel shrugged. “Thought I heard crying.” He wiped gently at his sibling’s cheeks. “You okay, Raf?” Rafael stared for a moment, brilliant mind working quickly to come up with a response. If he played this right Miguel would help him but say too much and he’d grow suspicious. 

Raf sighed, exaggerating the action just enough. “I’m just sick of the shouting and screaming and fighting,” he whimpered, “I was going to spend the night at a friend’s. It’s not like we have school tomorrow. And I practically live there already. He’s already outside to pick me up.” At the fundamental level, it truly was not a lie. Miguel placed a hand on his shoulder, nodding. He too had snuck out on occasion.

“Okay. Let’s you and I go for a walk, huh, Bud?” He winked down at the smaller boy. Raf nodded slightly uncertain. Miguel steered him by the shoulders to the stairs. Half way out the door Rafael’s brother turned and shouted back into the house. “Going out, be back in a bit!” Once safely outside he pointed to the Camaro across the street. “I’ll assume that’s your ride?” Raf nodded, already half way across the street. He stopped and turned, bolting back. Small hands wrapped about Miguel’s larger waist. He ruffled his younger brother’s hair, chuckling.

“I’ll call in the morning,” Raf called over his shoulder as he stepped into Bumblebee’s back seat. 

“Who’s that?” Jack asked as he mimicked putting Bumblebee into gear.

Rafael leaned forward over the back of the seat. “Older brother. Remind me to call him in the morning or he’ll worry.” Jack nodded. The ride was silent, almost overwhelmingly so until they pulled into the Nevada desert. Jack leaned back in his seat, muscles tight with stress.

“Hey, Raf,” He mumbled. The younger boy leaned forward to meet his gaze. “Just… just brace yourself. It’s not really a pretty sight.” Rafael made a questioning hum, asking for elaboration. “You can probably talk to him if you want but Ratch has been in and out for a while now. His plating’s pretty grey too. Optimus says that’s natural when they’re this sick but it’s still pretty bad looking. I just don’t want you to be freaked out.” Rafael nodded, small tears streaking down his cheeks.

Jack glanced back at his companion. “You know you don’t have to talk to him. You don’t even have to see him. If it’s too much, that’s okay. This is tough for someone so young. Tough for everyone. Ratch would understand.” Rafael shook his head furiously, batting away tears as they came.

“I’m okay, Jack. I want to see him.” Jack nodded, silently facing forward as the large disguised doors to the missile silo rumbled open. 

Upon entering, the base was silent beyond the droning hum of machinery, and the rhythmic beeping of the spark monitors. Raf could already hear the difference in Ratchet’s pulse from yesterday. It was slower, infrequent. With a gentle hand, Jack shuffled the younger boy into the medibay, his mouth drawn in a tight line and his steps as quiet as he could make them. Optimus greeted them with a small nod before returning to his hunched position over Ratchet’s frame. He held the elder mech’s hand in his, touching his fingers to his chin, while his elbows rested on the edge of the birth. From the dim glow of his optics, Raf guessed he hadn’t moved to recharge or refuel for at least the last twelve hours. Bumblebee stooped next to his leader, situating himself near Ratchet’s still legs. He leaned into his leader’s side with a sigh. 

Arcee sat at the monitors, gaze never leaving the flickering pulse of Ratchet’s spark as it flashed across the screen. Bulkhead was the furthest away, sitting cross-legged with Miko in his lap, head leaned back against the wall behind him, optics turned up to stare blankly at the high ceiling. The small Japanese girl sniffled into his plating, where she had been crying periodically throughout the night. June was the most active, wandering the medibay, checking the CR Chamber readouts and gathering supplies. Jack quickly moved to help her with an armful of boxes. Raf turned to glance at the one bot he had been avoiding looking at.

As Jack said it would be, Ratchet’s plating was a dull, sickly grey. Paint had flecked off in places as the dead nanites had ceased to cling to his frame. Tubes and cables snaked from his form, most of them spark support. And IV fed energon into his lines while a larger set of cables hung from his side vents, forcefully pumping air into his overheating frame. Ratchet’s chest rose up and down in uneven jolts, as if his body was forgetting to breath, then suddenly remembering, spurring his vents into a shuttering gasp instead of a smooth breath. The tube down his intake surely couldn’t have helped, though it did keep him from suffocating if he purged. 

Another cable, this one thinner and giving off a slight pulsing glow, snaked behind Ratchet’s audiles to monitor his processor activity. For a moment, Rafael watched the readout pulse steadily, like ocean waves. A spike, accompanied by a soft beep, caused him to flinch in surprise.

Ratchet stayed motionless, only his optics shuttering open, dimly glowing, as he was roused from his near unconscious recharge. 

Optimus laid down the medic’s hands and pushed himself up in his chair, smiling down warmly at his companion. “Rafael is here,” He whispered. Ratchet was still for a long moment, breathing evening out as his conscious mind took control. He reached up with an unsteady hand to pull at the tube down his throat. Optimus pulled his hand away with a sigh. 

“We can’t remove it, Ratchet,” Optimus chided, “You know that.” The medic whimpered softly, displeased with the answer. Optimus shook his head before glancing up at the group’s smallest human. With a slight nod of his helm, he beckoned Rafael over. The young boy climbed the rungs of the medical berth and stood uncertainly at Ratchet’s side.

“His mental integrity has degraded somewhat,” Optimus said by way of explanation, a sad smile still forced onto his derma. “He can understand you, but much of the area that connects his voice box to his processor is corrupted.” Ratchet watched Optimus intently, studying his mouth as if it helped him to understand the Prime’s words. When Optimus pointed to Rafael, the medic’s gaze followed. 

His optics lit up in understanding when he saw the boy. 

Rafael trembled, tears running down his cheeks. “Hey,” He choked out, not knowing what else to say. 

Ratchet’s brow furrowed and his mouth opened and closed around the breathing tube. “Short white,” was his only response. Raf glanced up at Optimus.

“His mind doesn’t always send the right words,” June called from where she was now sitting next to Arcee. “Just be patient with him. If it’s important, he’ll find the words for it.” She smiled at Raf before turning back to study the monitors. Rafael nodded, gulping down a few big breaths of air. He was struggling. Struggling not to cry, struggling with what to say, struggling to keep from fleeing the room. He’d told Jack he’d be alright, but now he wasn’t so sure. 

Optimus, thankfully, noticed his plight. “Rafael,” he began, clearing his throat, “Ratchet wanted to thank you for all your help with the base’s systems. He could not have navigated them so easily without you.” Ratchet nodded ever so slightly, seeming to understand and agree. Rafael wiped his eyes of his sleeve. Bumblebee whirred sadly next to Optimus, watching his charge and his mentor interact for what could easily be the last time. 

“You’re welcome,” Raf breathed. He stood for a moment longer before launching himself at Ratchet’s arm, gripping the metal. The medic jerked, startling. Rafael sobbed into his plating. “I don’t want you to leave,” he cried. “You’re family, we need you. We need you.” Bumblebee stood and rounded the berth, placing a finger to his charge’s back. Gently he pulled him away, until the boy was sitting in his hand, tears pouring down his face and hugging Bumblebee’s thumb. The scout chirped at him in what was meant to be a soothing manner. Even through his weeping, the young boy noticed with a twist of his stomach that Bumblebee, too, was trembling. 

Ratchet watched from his place on the berth, optics wide and mouth drawn into a sad line as best it could. “Rafael.”

Raf’s head jerked up at his name. He whirled about to face Ratchet, pressing further into Bumblebee’s palm.

“Don’t be afraid,” Ratchet ground out, words slurred and voice rough, “Don’t be afraid. I’m not.” With a small smile, he lowered his head back to berth and shuttered his optics. “Okay to be sad,” he breathed, systems returning to the grinding, uneven canter of a pained recharge. On the far end of the room Miko began sobbing again. Bulkhead clicked sadly along with her, his hands wrapped about her small, shaking form. 

Optimus ran a hand over Ratchet’s helm. “How is he, June?” He asked, glancing up at the nurse. 

June never turned her gaze from the monitors, but the small shake of her shoulders betrayed her struggle to fight back tears. “He’s just recharging, Optimus. His vitals are holding steady for now. I don’t think he’ll fall comatose until early morning at least.” The Prime nodded before he turned back to his self appointed task of keeping a strong grip on Ratchet’s hands, as if holding onto the medic’s very life. Bumblebee carried his charge over to lean against the wall next to Bulkhead and Miko, sensing that Rafael, in all his innocence, could withstand little more at the current moment. Miko reached across Bulkhead’s knee to grasp at Rafael’s hand. 

Jack nudged at Arcee’s elbow. “Why don’t you go recharge, ‘Cee.” He pushed against her harder when he gained no response.   
“You’ve been staring at those monitors for almost a full day now. We’ll let you know if anything changes.” Arcee silently shook her head, gaze never leaving the brightly lit screens. But after a moment she sighed, nodding. With a heavy frame and even heavier spark, the two-wheeler stood, dragging her feet towards the medibay doors. On her way by she placed her forehead on Ratchet’s, touching their helm crests together.

“I’ll be back soon, Ratch,” She whispered, “Hang in there for me.” The medic’s helm twitched as the coolness of her frame retreated from his overly hot plating. Bulkhead stood and followed her out, a now sleeping Miko in his hands. Ratchet groaned lightly as the medibay door squeaked shut. 

The remaining members of the groups sat silently, unsure of what to say or do. June was the most familiar to being around the ill. While for the most part she would simply go about her business, checking that the CR Chamber was prepared correctly for Ratchet, she would commonly stop and crack a joke, make an off-hand comment or lean down to give her shadow of a son a hug. Jack followed her incessantly, never leaving his mother’s side. He helped with whatever she happened to be doing. June assumed it was simply to keep his mind busy and thus allowed it without any comment. 

Rafael and Bumblebee both quickly fell into an uneasy slumber, the young boy curled up in the scout’s lap while Bee’s helm rolled to the side as he dreamed. Optimus never moved from Ratchet’s side, his stoic attention never flickering, even as the night wore on. 

Midnight had come and gone when the proximity sensors sounded throughout the base, muffled by the walls of the medbay. It was a groggy Arcee that answered the call. Moments later the medbay doors opened, admitting a ruffled Agent Fowler. The special agent looked about the room with a sigh as Ratchet roused once again. Fowler pulled himself up to the edge of the berth.

“Ratchet.” He placed a hand on Ratchet’s arm as if her were made of glass. “Hey, Ratchet.”

The medic stared at him a long moment, vents working in short gasps while his processor booted as much as it was able. He muttered several clicks in Protihexian. Optimus chuckled and responded in an Iaconian dialect. Fowler’s brow furrowed.

“What’d he say,” He asked. The Prime smiled lightly.

“Nothing of value, I assure you,” He responded, “Though I believe he was attempting a greeting.”

“Ah,” Fowler breathed, nodding. His own grandmother had done the same thing after she’d had a stroke. Words had been disconnected from their meanings and she frequently switched between English and what high-school-level French she knew. Despite the fact that she had passed away not but a year later, it had made for some humorous stories later on. “He can understand me though, right?”

Ratchet grunted an acknowledgement, very much aware that what he was speaking was nonsense. 

“Good,” Fowler mumbled, his voice gaining confidence as he spoke. “I need you to listen to me for a moment, Ratchet. This is important.” He patted Ratchet’s arm when the medic began to drift off, jerking him back awake. He waited for an acknowledgement before continuing. “Everyone here loves you, and everyone here would easily die for you. None of us want to see you go. But if Primus,” He glanced up to Optimus for a conformation on the deity’s name. “But if Primus comes for you, you go with him, understood soldier? You fight to stay with us, but if it’s your time, you go.”

“Hand too won’t be,” Ratchet mumbled, his optics scrunched and growing dimmer by the moment.

Optimus stroked the medic’s chevron. “While I believe he understands your sentiments, Agent Fowler,” Prime began, “Ratchet is a staunch atheist, despite the fact that I have personally conversed with Primus and he was the one to aid me in reaching the Maker’s spark.” 

Fowler chuckled. “Leave it to Ratch. If he can’t test it, examine it, and explain it, it doesn’t exist.”

“Indeed,” Optimus agreed. He glanced up at his crew’s only femme, who was now positioned back at the monitors, back facing her Prime. Her wing struts drooped slightly. “Arcee,” He called, “could you fetch a cold compress. I’m afraid Ratchet’s processor is overheating.” She stood silently to gather the requested supplies. The cloth draped over Ratchet’s chevron, clinging to its points. He sighed in relief as the compress did the job that his frame no longer could, feeling his thoughts clear somewhat of the hazy fog that had clouded them. 

“Agent staying?” He asked, yet again reaching up to attempt to remove the tube down his throat. Optimus grabbed his hands and gently pinned them to the berth. 

“No, Ratchet. You can’t touch that,” Optimus chided, frowning when Ratchet struggled weakly. Bulkhead entered just at the Prime placed his arm over Ratchet’s hands, leaning into the berth to keep the medic still. The wrecker chuckled.

“Hey, Jackie,” He called over his shoulder, “We could probably use your expertise in here.” Wheeljack bolted in, his pedes skidding on the concrete before he realized there was no true emergency. 

“Don’t do that, Bulk,” he nearly snapped, taking Ratchet’s hands from Optimus’ hold. The Prime smile gratefully. He was afraid he would inadvertently harm the medic. Wheeljack leaned over Ratchet, a stern look to his face. “Ratchet, stop,” he demanded, tone quiet yet harsh. The medic attempted to pull his hands from Wheeljack’s grasp. “Ratchet.” The medic turned his helm about. “Ratchet, look at me. Stop this, behave. I know you understand me, and I know you want that tube out, but I also know that you understand that’s not possible.” The white bot’s struggling ceased and Wheeljack eased his grip off slightly. Ratchet’s face, however, remained a picture of anger, and annoyance. 

“Agent stay?” He asked again, this time with more force. Agent Fowler shook his head sadly.

“As long as I can, Ratch. I’ve convinced the higher ups that this is to further my cultural understanding of you guys, but I still can be called back at any time.” Wheeljack relinquished Ratchet’s hands when the medic gave another tug and turned to sit next to Bumblebee, who was just now coming out of a light recharge. The scout snuggled into the wrecker’s side, chirring. Wheeljack simply held him, an arm around his shoulder, and helm on Bumblebee’s.

“It’s going to be okay, kiddo,” he whispered. 

Ratchet mumbled in Protihexian to Optimus. The Prime leaned down to hear him better, canting his head to the side. 

"No, Ratchet,” he responded in English, trying to encourage the bot to use a language the humans could understand, “Perhaps later.”

“What’d he say?” Jack asked, glancing up from the tools he was helping his mother clean. 

“Wants to go for a drive,” Bulkhead answered, helm turned to the floor and optics shuttered. 

“Ratch actually leaves base? Ever?” Miko snickered. Her attempt at humor went unanswered.

Ratchet returned to recharge not long after, systems flickering in and out of unconsciousness. The time between each stuttering breath increased steadily as the night wore on. Each of the room’s occupants waited with bated breath for the moment when his ventilation stopped altogether. However unlikely, the possibility that Ratchet’s spark would fade before he entered stasis lock loomed over everyone’s heads. With every breath the medic took, the others’ shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. 

By three in the morning, Optimus began to drift in and out of recharge, helm on the berth near Ratchet’s chest. Jack and Arcee had left for a short while, returning with an assortment of junk food that the children where now picking at. Few scraps of the food ever made it to their mouths. Miko had built a tower of French fries and Raf was crunching the ice from his drink, watching her intently as she began to play a version of Janga with her creation. She’d pulled the forth fry from the pile, popping it into her mouth, when the monitors beeped. 

June studied them for a moment before glancing over to Optimus, who was rubbing at his optics, yawning. “He’s entering stasis lock,” she announced. 

Optimus nodded. “When will he be placed in the CR Chamber.” 

“Not for a while,” June responded, “We need to be careful about this. He needs to be completely stasis locked before we remove the spark support, or his systems will crash. Too late and he won’t survive the transfer.” The Prime beckoned Bumblebee over with the others when the scout hesitated.

“It’s alright, Bee,” Arcee mumbled, a hand on his shoulder, “June knows what she is doing.” Bee nodded, whimpering lightly, his anxiety getting the better of him. 

Bulkhead was the first to place a hand to the seam of Ratchet’s spark chamber, a symbolic and traditional gesture. Wheeljack’s hand soon followed, coming to sit atop Bulkhead’s. He squeezed his friend’s hand as they both drew away. Bulkhead muttered a small prayer in Iaconian. 

Optimus’ tenor followed, voice remaining steady and regal as he rumbled a traditional phrase, one meant to guide the sick and broken back to those they loved. As he spoke, Arcee and Bumblebee took their turns at touching their hands to where Ratchet’s spark resided. Miko tugged at Bulkhead’s pede, prompting him to lift her to the berth so she could do the same. The heat of Ratchet’s plating nearly singed her fingers but she held her hand there none the less. Raf and Jack soon followed with the gestured as Optimus brought his passage to a close.

The Prime placed a hand over his own spark while the other rested over Ratchet’s. The energy of the matrix flaring beneath his closed chassis was almost tangible. Every human in the room felt the hair on the back of their necks prickle.   
Agent Fowler held June’s hand for a moment before moving off to a corner, out of the way. The nurse turned when the monitors beeped again.

“Okay, Optimus. He’s ready. We need to disconnect him. Start with that one.” She pointed to the tube down Ratchet’s throat. Unlike when they had placed the tube there, as Ratchet gagged and squirmed, the medic didn’t even twitch when the Prime slid it from his intakes. “Good, now the IV. Then unhook the processor monitor.” The system alarms blared to life before June could catch them as the cable ceased receiving information on Ratchet’s mental state. June flicked the system off as she typed in the commands to activate the CR Chamber. The machine whirred nosily for a moment before settling in to a quiet hum. Those around the chamber or blocking the way moved back against the walls.

Prime glanced up at June with an unfamiliar look of worry and a lack of confidence.

“You’re doing fine, Optimus,” she assured. “Now, one by one starting the furthest from his spark, disconnect the support lines. If he starts to fluctuate, I’ll let you know, and you’ll just need to reattach them. We’ll move him into the chamber and then disconnect the lines if that happens.” Optimus nodded, biting his lip as he concentrated on his task. Arcee placed a reassuring hand at his back. 

The monitors beeped. Optimus instantly grabbed the cable he had just dropped at the medics side, preparing to reattach it. “Wait,” June commanded, hands up in a calming motion, “Give his spark a chance to stabilize.” Sure enough, within moments, the medic’s spark pulse returned to its shallow rhythm. Optimus remained tense as he eased the remaining cables from Ratchet’s form, not relaxing in the slightest until the final one was disconnected. With a nod from June, he eased the medic into his arms, unbelievably careful with his limp frame. 

Ratchet slid easily into the CR chamber. Air clung to his frame in minute bubbles as the gel like fluid surrounded him. He hung suspended in the cylindrical glass chamber once Optimus relinquished his grip on the medic. Within moments his ventilation stopped as his frame cooled beyond needing the air. In one last gasping sigh, his frame pushed the air from his vents and filled with the nanite rich solution that surrounded him. The few biolights hidden beneath his remaining armor dimmed. 

There was a long, tense moment following. June’s fingers skimmed the keyboard, eyes never leaving the monitor. The remaining optics and eyes glanced between Ratchet’s limp frame and the back of June’s head as she worked. Finally she let out a breath she was unaware of holding. 

“He’s stable,” she breathed, “His systems have accepted the modified nanites.” A collective sigh followed her.

“Now what?” Miko asked from her place on Bulkhead’s shoulder. The wrecker cupped a hand around her back.

Optimus smiled, shoulders sagging in exhaustion and relief. “Now,” He spoke, a great deal of confidence returning to his voice, “We wait.”


	11. Chapter 11

The sun was high above the plains of the Nevada desert when the children finally fell into an uneasy sleep. June spend her morning monitoring Ratchet’s vitals, rubbing at her eyes until they were red and aching and downing cup after cup of the strongest coffee she knew how to brew. Optimus stayed by her side well past noon until Bulkhead practically dragged him off for a much needed recharge. The Prime protested but finally conceded that he was of little use in his current half aware state. Agent Fowler, as promised, stayed as long as he could but was called back to report to his superiors just passed dawn. Arcee accompanied Bumblebee on a long drive, providing the young scout with a much needed distraction.

Under the ever vigilant watch of his friends and family, Ratchet survived the day and the following night. This was a monumental accomplishment in June’s eyes and it was with a smile that out shone her tired eyes that she informed the others that the majority of the danger had passed. Everyone slept easier that night. 

-

“Morning Prime.” Optimus turned and greeted Wheeljack from his place perched atop the medberth situated nearest to the CR Chamber. He accepted the offered cube of energon with a smile. The wrecker made himself comfortable in Ratchet’s wheelchair. He rocked back and forth idly. 

“Thank you, Wheeljack,” Prime mumbled, “For all your assistance these past few orns.”

“Really haven’t done much,” Wheeljack countered, now flicking the chair’s locking mechanism on and off. “Unless you count royally pissing him off a few times.” 

“I do not blame Ratchet for having such frayed nerves,” Prime agreed. He glanced at the form suspended in the CR Chamber. Ratchet’s optics were cracked open, but unlit. His hands twitched minutely and occasionally his helm would jerk to the side.

“He’s going to be fine, Prime,” Wheeljack assured, following the larger bot’s gaze. “I can’t truthfully say he’s survived worse but he’s a tough bot and he’s come this far.” Optimus nodded silently, leaning forward on his elbows to stare more intently at the chamber. Wheeljack sighed, shaking his head. Prime was set on worrying, little would say his focus. 

The two sat in silence for a long while, Wheeljack swinging his feet and Optimus unmoving. The silence was broken by the medbay doors squeaking open, revealing a shuffling Miko. Both bots watched as she made her way over to stand in front of the CR Chamber. She stared up at Ratchet for a long moment before pulling out her phone and taking aim. Wheeljack lunged and she ended up with a blurry picture of his hand.

“Hey!” She protested as he scooped her up. She slapped his hand as he brought her to rest on his knee. “What was that for?!”

Wheeljack frowned. “I don’t think Ratch would appreciate photos right now.” Miko huffed, her face falling.

“I only have one other of him,” She mumbled, “I just wanted another for my scrapbook.”

“Miko,” Optimus rumbled, catching the child’s attention, “While I understand your intent, Ratchet is not aware to give or deny consent to having his picture taken. It’s disrespectful to do so without his knowledge.”

Miko bowed her head. “Sorry, Prime. It won’t happen again.” Optimus’ expression softened and he heaved himself to his pedes.

“I believe I have a solution.” He motioned for her to follow as he exited the medbay. Wheeljack remained silently for a moment as the door slit shut. Once the others disappeared he unlocked the wheelchair and rolled about the room, a slight smile on his derma.

Optimus led Miko through the main room and into the hall containing the base’s quarters. Miko gapped as he punched out the code for his own door. None of the children had ever seen the inside of the Prime’s quarters, though they had fantasized. 

Stepping inside at Optimus’ nod, Miko decided the experience was oddly disappointing. The room was mostly bare beyond a berth and several data pads piled onto a night stand. The crystals Ratchet had given Prime were displayed along with a few other trinkets on a wall mounted shelf. Optimus searched through the items for a moment before selecting a metallic chrome cube. He motioned for Miko to join him on the berth.

When he pressed a small switch on the object’s side, a hologram sprang forth. The image was of several unfamiliar bots, one a bright Pink femme. They all smiled and waved at the camera. 

“I can download any image you wish to a datapad,” Optimus explained, “which you then may use to print them for your scrapbook. I don’t believe I have any recent captures of Ratchet.” He flicked quickly through several images as he spoke, “but I do have quite a few of him with his Cybertronian kibble.”

Miko gapped. “Hold on,” she practically squealed, “We have to show the others.” With that she dashed from the room, returning moments later with a baffled Jack and groggy Rafael in tow. Optimus opted to sit with them on the floor instead of lifting each up to the berth. Miko, unafraid of the giant, clambered up to sit on the Prime’s knee. Optimus smiled at her eagerness. He placed the cube on the floor, reactivating the projector.

“This,” he explained, motioning to the displayed image, “Is the original crew of the Ark.” The children stared wide eyed at the plethora of bots. They ranged from all shapes and sizes. Minibots occupied the front row of mechs, along with several cassettes while the team’s warriors and frontliners towered over them.

Miko jabbed a finger at a white mech in the back of the photo, the largest of them. “Bet that guy packed a wallop.”

“That is Skyfire,” Optimus shook his head. “He is a scientist, a pacifist.”

“There’s Bee and Bulk, and you,” Jack pointed out Optimus, standing tall in the center of the photo, surrounded by his crew. “Where’s Arcee and Ratch?”

“Arcee and Cliffjumper joined out team after we arrived on Earth via space bridge. Ratchet is there.” The medic was standing on the tips of his pedes to be seen over the rather enthusiastic visor wearing bot next to Optimus. His helm was a deep red, graced by a mat black chevron but the frown he wore gave him away. The children chucked at the sight, and Optimus flipped to the next capture. This image was two separate photos displayed side by side. The first was of a black and white bot, the second was of Ratchet. The pictures were nearly identical. Both mechs were slumped over the front of their desks, sound asleep amongst a sea of datapads.

“I want that one,” Miko mumbled, and Optimus clicked a second button to save the image in a separate file. The next few photos were candid as well. Two bots sitting behind bars, one red, one yellow. The yellow bot was making a rude gestured at the photographer while the red one was grinning happily.

“That’s Sunstreaker?” Rafael pointed to the yellow bot. “Bee showed me his art. He’s really good.”

Optimus hummed in agreement. “Sunstreaker was one of Cybertron’s more well know artists. Sideswipe managed the business and sold his works. They are two of my best frontliners.” The next capture was of a larger red and black mech, Ironhide, Optimus supplied, staring down an indoor shooting range, the barrel of his gun smoking and the drone he was practicing on spattered across the back of the range. 

The image changed, this time showing the inside of what used to be a laboratory. The walls were blackened and equipment was strewn about in bits. Skyfire was holding a rather disgruntled bot with what appeared to be a microscope mounted on his shoulder, while Ratchet searched the debris for the scientist’s missing arm. 

“Rare that Percy would do something like that.” The children turned to see Bulkhead leaning against the door frame, a smirk to his face. “That’s more Jackie’s style.”

“It happened on occasion,” Optimus agreed, “Though I believe this one was the result of one of the twins’ pranks.” Bulkhead scooped Jack into his lap to make room for himself on the floor. The teen grunted in surprise but did not protest. 

“You still got one of Bee back in Iacon?” Bulk asked, leaning forward. “We’ve got to tease the kid at least a bit. Show his baby pictures and all.” Optimus chuckled, nodding. He scrolled through the index for a moment before finding what he was looking for. A small, dandelion yellow bot stare back, large optics wide with curiosity as he reached out for the camera. His small doorwings were held high behind him as he crawled forward on all fours. 

“Is that Bee?” Rafael asked, reaching out as if to touch the hologram.

Optimus nodded. “Bumblebee’s carrier was killed on the outskirts of Iacon, when the city’s borders were bombed. My team took him in. This was taken just before his first frame upgrade.”

“Bee’s not very old is he?” Miko mumbled, wringing her hands in her lap.

“’bout the equivalent of your age, actually,” Bulkhead supplied. Optimus flipped to the next photo. This one of an older Bumblebee, smiling at the camera man, holding up his first ion cannon, which was nearly half his size. The next capture was of Ratchet at Bumblebee’s bedside, holding his hand. The scout’s lower face and neck was covered in metal sheeting, and his torso was missing the majority of his armor. He looked rather forlorn, and exhausted, though his optics still shown back with a hard earned determination. Optimus glanced at Miko to ask if she wanted the photo. She merely shook her head, gaze turned down. 

After a few more scrolled though photos, one in particular caught Miko’s attention. It was of a large gathering of bots, the Ark’s early crew. At the photo’s center, two bots stood hand in hand, dancing, one was the same visored mech that had blocked Ratchet from view in the crew capture, and the other the black and white Praxian from before. Miko cooed at the looks on their face plates. 

Bulkhead waggled a finger at the photo. “I remember that,” he remarked, “boy was that some night. The officer’s party just after the Ark had launched. Took Jazz a good half joor to convince Prowl to dance with him.” Optimus chuckled at the memory.

“Didn’t Ratch drink himself under the table?” Bulk asked.

“Ratchet? Drunk?” Miko practically shouted. “Please tell me you’ve got a photo of that!” Optimus sighed but flipped through the holograms until he found the correct capture. Ratchet sat at a circular table, head tilted slightly to the right as if gravity was no longer perpendicular to the ground and empty cubes surrounding him. His face was pulled into a broad, if somewhat lopsided, smile. Several bots sat around him at the table, all but Ratchet soundly in recharge, having drunken too much for their tanks to handle. In the background a blue and white bot was purging his tanks into the nearest waist receptacle. 

“Looks more like Ratch drank everyone else under the table,” Jack snorted, clearly somewhat disturbed. Miko made to open her mouth, but Optimus cut her off.

“I don’t believe you should include this one in your album, Miko.” The girl’s face fell, but she seemed to understand. Even at her young age she could recognize that ill or not, Ratchet was not always of sound mind and confidence. He teetered on the edge of depression and severe anxiety at all times. It would not do well to remind him of past grievances while he was in such a fragile physical state. 

“Prime?” Arcee slid around the door frame, smiling at the sight that greeted her. Optimus nodded for her to continue. “Sorry to interrupt, but the ground bridge is giving off some weird readings. I’m not sure how to fix it.” Prime placed Miko on the ground as he stood. The children seemed disappointed to have their story time cut short but they understood and did not protest. Bulkhead showed Miko how to work the controls on the holo-emitter, much to her delight. 

Optimus followed Arcee through the base to the main room. Sure enough, warnings had popped up all over the main screen. Prime frowned, scratching at his chin. “You’ve rebooted, correct,” he asked jokingly. Arcee rolled her optics but nodded. Optimus pecked at the computer for a moment before standing back and staring. 

“You don’t know, do you?” Arcee mumbled.

Optimus shook his head. “Technology and engineering is not my specialty. I know my way around a database, but not systems as technical as this. Rafael may be able to assist.” Arcee nodded and turned to fetch the child. Within a few moments of examining the computer, Rafael sat back. 

“I think it’s an electrical problem.” He shrugged. “I can’t find anything in the coding or database that would be causing a problem.” He glanced up at Optimus. “Have you activating the ground bridge yet?” 

“No,” Prime replied, “We were unsure if it was safe to do so.”

Raf scratched the back of his head, ruffling his hair back into its proper shape. “I don’t think it will cause a problem. And unless we amp up the power considerably there’s little to no chance of it blowing up, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Optimus strode over to the ground bridge, pulling the lever with one last glance towards Rafael. The bridge threw off several sparks before going silent again. The rooms occupants glanced between each other before settling on the sole human. Raf exaggerated a shrug, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture.

“I think that confirms that it’s an electrical problem,” Arcee sighed. “Wanna help me lift this panel off, Prime.” Optimus simply moved the smaller bot aside and heaved concrete slab off by himself. Rafael hopped down from the observation deck to take a look at the wiring. 

“Here it is!” He called from his spot crammed inside the systems internals. Several wires had been twisted together too tightly and had snapped. Unfortunately each was the same color as the next, making it nearly impossible to tell what was supposed to go where. Optimus leaned down to examine the break. 

“Ratchet kept notes on the base’s systems in the database. Perhaps he has something that can help us.” The Prime moved to look though the database, glad to be back in his element. 

“Schematics?” Rafael asked. 

“Perhaps…” Prime trailed off when he came to a file he did not recognize: Omega Base Repair and Upkeep. His expression became one of confusion when he opened the document. Inside there were detailed instructions for every aspect of system repair. Further back in the file was a similar document, instead outlining everything for minor welds to major surgeries. Optimus checked the file information. Ratchet had last edited the file only a month ago, shortly before he was confined to bed rest. 

Arcee leaned around his waist to look for herself. “Slagger,” she mumbled. For a moment she stared, face slowly contorting into a look of rage. “That Primus fragging slagger!” She stomped her pede and whirled about to face the medbay.

“Arcee?” Optimus asked, a look of worry on his face. 

Arcee’s shoulders sagged. “He never expected to survive, did he?” She sighed. “He wouldn’t leave us something this through to be out for only a week or two.”

Optimus kneeled level to Arcee’s optics. “Ratchet has worked for a cure for over six million years,” he reminded, “While I believe he respects June’s medical knowledge and intelligence, I also believe you are correct. No, he does not expect this plan to succeed, and has planned for the worst.”

Arcee nodded. “Let’s just fix the ground bridge,” she murmured, trudging back over to Rafael, who was reading the instructions, pretending not to hear the conversation to his side. With a last check over his comrades, Optimus returned to the medbay. Wheeljack had fallen into a heavy recharge on one of the medical berths. Prime let him be. Instead his sat in front of the CR chamber. 

He placed his elbows on his knees and leaned into his hands, sighing. Ratchet had closed his optics, much to Prime’s relief. While he knew the medic was soundly in stasis it was disturbing to see his optics open in a mockery of consciousness. Optimus glanced at Ratchet’s hand when it twitched. His own hand ached in sympathy and a throbbing ache was building between his finials. 

“I understand your doubt, old friend” he mumbled after a long moment, gaze never leaving Ratchet’s still form, “but we need you back. Please hang on.” Ratchet was still. Optimus sighed, placing his head back into his hands. “June said the treatment is going well. If everything keeps progressing the way it is, we can start repair on your processors in half a megacycle.” He smiled softly, “Rafael has gone over the coding for the nanites at least a dozen times. I’ve reassured him that he is capable and it is doubtful that he has missed anything but he is still unsatisfied.” Wheeljack stirred behind the Prime. He stretched and heaved himself from the berth.

“Think he can hear you?” Wheeljack stood behind the stool where Optimus sat, rubbing his optics.

Optimus nodded. “Even if he can’t, it is soothing to simply talk.” Wheeljack hummed.

“Well, I’m going back to the Jackhammer for some proper recharge. Medical berths are slagging uncomfortable.” He waved over his shoulder as he walked from the medbay. “Night Prime, Night Ratch.” The medbay doors shut with a sickeningly high pitched wail. Optimus flinched at the sound, staring at where Wheeljack had vanished with wide, unfocused optics. A tapping sound at his back caught his attention. It was so soft he nearly missed it.

Ratchet was awake, his optics dim but online and his knuckles wrapped lightly against the glass. Once he noticed that he had the Prime’s attention he allowed his hand to drift back to his side. Prime gently pressed a hand to the CR Chamber where Ratchet’s had been. His other hand moved to his finial and activated his comm. link. The phone at the other end rang annoyingly in the Prime’s helm.

“Afternoon, Prime,” June’s soft voice murmured.

“Hello, June,” Optimus greeted. “Is it normal for Ratchet to regain consciousness while in the CR Chamber?”

June hummed, “It’s not dangerous, if that’s what you mean. The glitch should be weakened enough at this point that the nanites will do their job, conscious or not. I assume he’s up?” The Prime grunted an acknowledgment, watching Ratchet’s half shuttered optics focus on the bubbles floating up in front of him.

“He woke only a few moments ago.”

“Alright,” June said, “I have to go attend to a patient. Check his levels, make sure he’s not in pain and I’ll check back later.”

“Thank you, June.” Optimus clicked off his comm. and moved to check the monitors. The readouts remained steady, much to his relief. Turning back to the CR Chamber, Optimus smiled at the sight of Ratchet’s cross-eyed expression. He tapped lightly on the glass to regain his attention. The medic jolted, startled.

“Sorry,” Optimus murmured. He hadn’t considered how loud the sound would be while submerged. “Are you in any pain, Ratchet?” He asked. The medic stared at him blankly. “Pain?” Optimus repeated, louder. Ratchet’s helm shook back and forward lethargically. No pain. He clicked in Cybertronian, the sound barely escaping the chamber. Optimus smiled gently. His processors had yet to be repaired. He was still speaking non-sense.

“We were worried about you, old friend,” Optimus said loud enough for Ratchet to hear. “I am glad to see you’re well.” The white mech nodded slowly in a manner that left Optimus unsure that he’d understood. It mattered little when Ratchet’s optics began to flicker. Optimus ran a finger down the glass, watching with a smile as Ratchet drifted off.

“Recharge soundly, Ratchet.” Optimus sat back to continue his ever vigilant watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve poised this challenge to my beta and fanfiction already but no one's gotten it. I’m big on symbolism. There’s a lot throughout this piece. Character, objects, events. Pretty much anything is a possibility. There’s a major, reoccurring one that’s in this chapter up until chapter 14. I’d love to see if you guys can find it.


	12. Chapter 12

Two weekends came and went without much notice. The hours were long but the days too short and before anyone knew it half a month had passed. The children spent an almost worrying amount of time with their guardians, so much so that even Miko’s host parents had taken notice. In the mornings they would force themselves from slumber, clamber into their guardians’ passenger seats and stumble through Jasper High's front door.

School was more difficult than ever. It became common place that assignments were turned in late or half completed. For once in her short life Miko managed every day without a single detention. Time was simply too sparse, she refused to waste it inside a classroom when it was not strictly required. Her companions, and most of all Bulkhead, were grateful and overjoyed. There was hope for the troublemaker yet. 

After school hours the children found themselves exhausted. It was not uncommon for Rafael to doze off in Bumblebees back seat or for Miko to forget about the radio entirely. Once at base, the other's would rouse there charges and trudge off to their respective duties. The children would dash as quickly as their numb legs would carry them to the medibay and plant themselves in front of the CR chamber until one of the bots could convince them to leave. 

Tonight, however, the sight of June's car parked off to the side of the ops room startled not only the children out of their routine but the bots as well. Miko glanced up at Bulkhead as he transformed, brow raised. Bulkhead shrugged. It was not uncommon to see June at base but she normally only checked in on Ratchet before her shifts at the hospital or late at night when she got off work. Even Jack appeared startled as they walked to the medibay. 

The door to the repair-bay ground open with a wail of protest revealing a dimly lit room. Optimus sat on a berth near the CR chamber, back bent to allow his elbows to rest on his thighs. His optics strayed momentarily from watching June work at the console to glance back at the medibay's six new occupants. He flashed a small smile before turning back. Bulkhead moved to stand behind him.

"What's going on boss bot?" He mumbled, gaze drifting to Ratchets limp form. To his surprise the medic's optics were wide and focused. His optics flittered between the Prime and June, seemingly unaware that anyone else had entered the room.

"June is performing a check of Ratchet's coding before we remove him from the CR chamber," Optimus explained. "He woke around noon. We'd planned to check him tomorrow morning anyway." 

Miko stepped forward, mouth open and head tilted back to meet Ratchet's optics. "So, the doc gets to come out today?" June turned, smiling.

"Yes, he may," she informed. "Everything looks good. Optimus, why don't you go grab Wheeljack to give us a hand?" The Prime nodded and quickly left the room. 

No one missed the tense hold of his shoulders. He was elated that Ratchet was healing so well, but the danger still stood. It was highly possible that within the CR chamber Ratchet was healthy and stable, but the moment they pulled him out his health would deteriorate he would fall ill again, even quicker and more agonizingly. 

Bulkhead followed him out, ushering the children and his fellow soldiers with him. Miko protested, batting against his hand when he made to pick her up.

"Bulk," she gripped, "I wanna see this."

"Uh-uh," the wrecker countered, giving a firmer tap to her back, "we need to give them room to work."

"I can be quiet! I'm tinny! It’s not even possible for me to be in the way." The medibay doors opened again to admit Optimus and Wheeljack. Bulkhead gave a sheepish smile before simply picking the pouting Miko up and carrying her out of the room. “Bulk!” She practically wailed.

“I said no,” Bulkhead snapped, glare turning harsh and angry. Miko flinched back, surprised. Through all of the tension in the last few months, through every difficult day and every losing battle, Bulkhead had never once raised his voice to her. He’d glared at Optimus a few times, shooed Bumblebee off during one of his more sour moods and had even practically screamed at Ratchet after a lost battle but he’d never so much as glared in Miko’s direction. 

Bulkhead’s expression softened as the small girl tensed in his hand, as if awaiting blows she knew would not come. His optics widened and his brow raised under his helm. “Miko, I-”, he began, stuttering somewhat on the words. “I didn’t mean-” Miko patted at his wrist before he could continue, smiling up at her guardian.  
“’s okay, Bulk,” She mumbled. “My fault.” 

The wrecker sighed, shoulders sagging. He glanced up to see both of his fellow Autobots staring at him. Bumblebee wore a rather empathetic look while Arcee simply appeared worried. 

“Bee,” Arcee mumbled, making her voice as light as possible, “Why don’t you and I run a quick patrol?” Bumblebee nodded slowly in agreement. Arcee sparred   
Bulkhead one last glance as they departed. “All yours, Bulk.” The wrecker nodded gratefully, motioning the children over as he sat on the concrete floor with a thud. 

Bulkhead was patient as ever as he waited for the children to arrange themselves on the floor around him. Miko, as usually took up the spot on his knee while the other two arranged themselves into a semicircle. 

"All three of you have been very helpful and patient these last few months," he smiled at each in turn. Rafael gave a broad smile back but both Jack and Bulkheads own charge still looked worried and unsure of the situation. "But when we tell you to do something, or not do something you need to listen." Miko turned her gaze down.

"Sorry," she mumbled, still down cast, "I just wanted to watch."

"I know," he assured, "but honestly I don't think it’s going to be something you want to see." Jack gave him a puzzled look while Rafael merely grimaced, knowing all too well what was about to go on behind those closed doors. 

Bulkhead sighed heavily, trying to figure out how best to explain. "During the start of the war CR Chambers were used pretty regularly. They’re actually much more efficient than surgery and tended to be less physically traumatic. Been in a few times myself." He shook his helm as a shiver ran down his back struts. No matter how much time passed the memory of CR time was always fresh. "Going in is uncomfortable. Coming out downright nasty. Trust me; you don't want to see this."

“That bad?” Jack cringed back minutely at the expression Bulkhead gave him. “On a scale of one to limb reattachment, how bad are we talking?”

The wrecker waved a hand. “No, no. I’d much rather have my arm reattached. Ratch deadens the sensors there, a few welds and new cables and you’re good to go. CR fluid is thick, more like jelly than water. Sticky too. Vents don’t like to give it up, and I swear it sticks to the inside of your tank for at least the next week.”

Miko gaped in horror, the feeling of goo in her lungs and insides tingling over her skin. “In your tanks?” She squeaked, “I knew you breathed the stuff, I didn’t know you ate it too.”

“In order for the nanites to thoroughly repair the frame,” Rafael began, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose with the palm of his hand. “The solution has to be in contact with every surface possible. It’ll be in his helm too, to get at his processors.”

Bulkhead shrugged, “Processors, tanks, vents, T-cog, optics, interface panel. Only place it doesn’t go is inside the spark chamber, unless it’s cracked. Liquid near the spark is a very bad thing.”

“Interface panel?” Jack mumbled, but dropped the subject when he saw the nervous glance the Autobot gave the group’s youngest member.  
With a sigh, Miko turned back to look Bulkhead in the optics. Her eyes were wide and her eyebrows turned up. “I was wrong. I don’t want to see.”

-

The medibay was silent except for the hydraulics of two nervous bots and the subtle gurgling of the CR Chamber as it prepared to drain into a secondary compartment. Ratchet glanced about worriedly. What was a gentle rumble to those outside the CR Chamber was a deafening roar to Ratchet. All the movement and sound was frightening, and while logically he knew none of the bots present would willingly cause him harm, he was vulnerable and groggy. It became easy for instinct to take over any conscious thought. 

Optimus watched his friend carefully for any sign of distress while both Wheeljack and June shuffled about, making preparations. The sequence used to drain the CR chamber and the equipment that needed to be set up throughout the medibay was a lengthy process. They double checked every aspect of it as well. For the most part Ratchet seemed patient. Every now and then he would flinch when he caught sight of Wheeljack, processor quickly forgetting the other bot was present and thus gearing up for another jolt the next time the wrecker moved. While the repair nanites had done their work in removing strain of code that was CCG, they had done only minimal repairs to the medics processing. In time, his mind would right itself, but the Autobots simply did not possess the resources to keep   
Ratchet suspended for as long as it would take to heal all the damage the illness had done. 

“Everything’s good over here,” June called from the elevated upper level. Wheeljack gave her a sharp nod.

“Starting the draining process.” He tapped at a small button on the CR Chamber’s controls and the machine whirred to life. The slits at the base of the CR 

Chamber opened, allowing the liquid inside to flow unheeded into a separate container situated at the back of the tank. Or it would have, if the secondary compartment had been attached as it should have. Instead the liquid simply flowed out onto the floor, rendering the concrete slick and oily. It would be a mess to clean later but Optimus paid it little mind as he lurched forward, prepared to catch Ratchet the moment the glass doors slid open. Wheeljack placed a hand on his shoulder, using both as comfort and to steady himself when his pede slipped marginally. 

As the fluid drained passed Ratchet’s helm and his pedes scrapped against the grated floor he jerked forward. What could only be described as sludge flooded forward from his open mouth. Depleted energon and coolant mixed with spent repair nanites and dribbled down his chin to pool in the still draining liquid below. The medic coughed and sputtered. Every time he attempted to clear his intakes, more CR fluid was sucked in through his vents.

Optimus looked aghast, frozen in place. Wheeljack however, simply winced and placed a calming hand over the glass where Ratchet could see it. The medic made a grab for the appendage and seemed almost surprised that a barrier was blocking his path. He rapped on the glass as if to try again.

“It’s okay, Ratch,” Wheeljack soothed, loud enough for the medic to hear but still not at the level of a shout. “’nother minute and we’ll get you out.”

That response did not seem to placate the panicking mech. Instead he leaned his weight further against the glass, no longer supported by any buoyancy as the CR fluid had now drained to his waist. The first real breath he took through every available vent was rough and grating. Fluid gurgled within his systems and ran in rivulets down his sides. Suddenly he gagged, his tanks spasming and preparing to purge. His pedes slipped back and clanked against the far side of the chamber as he dry heaved, causing his chevron to slam against the glass. 

Wheeljack cursed and slammed a fist down on the release button for the CR Chamber doors. “Gonna make a mess anyway,” he mumbled. Optimus seemed to snap back to reality with the hiss of the doors. He wormed his hands into the chamber before the doors had opened wide enough for his arms to fit through, ready to catch his eldest friend. Fluid poured over his pedes and sloshed at his ankles. The Prime caught Ratchet under his arms, holding him up and Wheeljack stepped to the medic’s side and held his helm as he purged. Thick and sticky sludge emptied from Ratchet’s mouth, splashing onto the floor and Prime’s pedes. He grimaced but said nothing as Ratchet heaved again.

After what seemed like far too many convulsions and more expelled fluid than Optimus thought was possible, Ratchet fell limp into the Prime’s arms. He coughed weakly, innards feeling like they’d been rubbed raw, yet still acutely aware of the remaining CR fluid trapped there. Wheeljack sloshed through the fluid on the floor to help Ratchet into Optimus’ arms. Once he was situated the Prime carried him carefully to the furthest berth, as the closest was covered in splatters of goop. The wrecker gathered up the monitoring equipment they had prepared while Optimus saw to it that Ratchet was decently comfortable. His ventilations still came in rapid, wet sounding bursts, but he was now taking in at least some air. Golden droplets, flaked with shimmers of blue, seeped from his optics and down his cheeks. Optimus grabbed a cloth out of a nearby bin they’d filled with cleaning supplies and wiped up what he could. The medic, however, was covered in the rather oily substance. He would need a good several washes to rid him of it. 

“Readings are stable,” June announced, reading the data carefully as Wheeljack hooked Ratchet into the monitoring systems. Optimus let out a long, relieved sigh. His relief however, did not last long.

“Wheeljack,” he called, doing his best not to startle the still wide opticed medic. The wrecker glanced over, concern tight on his faceplates. “He’s damaged himself.”

Wheeljack leaned down, running a hand over Ratchet’s forehelm soothingly. “Bent chevron,” he agreed, “not really much to worry about. Probably hurts a bit, but not enough to bother with right now. He’d just freak out some more.” Ratchet’s gaze darted to the swords mech the moment he began to speak. A shaky hand came up, searching for the other. The wrecker grabbed his hand and gave a gentle squeeze.

Ratchet opened his mouth as if to speak, but all he managed was a cut off gurgle. Wheeljack snorted, grinning. He gratefully accepted the solvent soaked cloth Optimus handed him and began to rub down Ratchet’s neck cablings, being careful to get as much of the gunk inside the medic’s seems as he could. 

“You’re doing real good, Ratch,” he mumbled, never letting go of the medic’s hand as he worked. “I’m proud of yah. You’re a brave mech.” He glanced up to Optimus, offering a soft smile. “You too boss. Not an easy thing for any mech. ‘specially if they ain’t a medic.”

Optimus returned the smile. “I was unaware that you had any medical training,” he offered. A conversation would help to settle his rolling tanks. He now knew why Ratchet had never let him be present when any of his mechs came out of the CR Chambers. Even as Orion he’d had a weak tank. How he handled the gore of battle had always confounded the medic. 

Wheeljack shrugged, the movement causing Ratchet to flinch and grip his hand tighter. He ran a soothing hand over the unbent portion of the medic’s chevron before speaking. “’for all this fighting I was an engineer. Decent but had a habit of-” he waved his cloth about in a noncommittal gesture, “getting over enthusiastic. Had Ratch patchin’ me up more than I can remember. Spent a fair amount of time watchin’ him work even before we ended up together. That and it was fairly useful to know how to crimp an energon line when you got yourself blown up every other megacycle.” 

Optimus raised a brow, “You were an engineer?”

“Freelance, no one would hire me permanently,” Wheeljack responded, “but yeah.” He twisted to look back over his shoulder. “How’s he lookin’, June?”  
The human smiled, the majority of tension she had held earlier drained from her body as she relaxed back into her chair. “Better by the minute,” she beamed. “His vitals are leveling out nicely.”

Wheeljack grinned down at the medic. “Hear that Ratch? You’re doing good. Keep it up.” He gave the mech’s hand a firm squeeze when Ratchet responded with another gurgling sound. 

Optimus frowned. “We should clear his intakes.”   
The grey mech nodded, pointing across the birth to a round rubber tool. Optimus handed it to him then gently grasped Ratchet’s jaw. The medic immediately began to squirm, associating the action with them inserting the breathing tube. Unfortunately, this was not dissimilar. The Prime leaned forward to place his weight against Ratchet’s chest, pinning him against the berth, and pried his mouth open. 

Ratchet practically shrieked as Wheeljack guided the thin tube attached to the rubber bulb into his mouth and down his intakes. His wails turned to moans as the object was squeezed and released, suctioning up the fluid that filled his vents and intake. 

“Just a bit more, Ratch,” Wheeljack assured. “Trust me; you’ll thank us for this.” Both mech’s sighed in relief when a whooshing sound came from the device instead of the wet slurping that proceeded it. Wheeljack carefully eased the tool out of Ratchet’s throat. The medic coughed and sputtered for a moment before settling, glaring at the Prime as he was released. 

“How to you feel, Ratchet?” Prime asked, resuming his task of whipping down the medic’s frame. 

Ratchet groaned for a moment more, coolant welling up in his optics from the sting of his intakes. Finally he decided on a word. “Ow.”

Wheeljack chuckled, “I bet.” He picked up Ratchet’s hand again, rubbing a thumb along his palm. “Ratchet, can you squeeze my hand for me?” While it took him a moment to figure out the command, nearly punching Optimus as he attempted to remember which hand was which, Ratchet eventually managed to do as asked. 

Wheeljack nodded, humming in approval. 

He then moved down to Ratchet’s pedes, placing a hand over his right one. “Can you wiggle your pedes?” he asked. 

Ratchet squirmed. “No walking.”

“Defiantly no walking,” June called out, a badly hidden smirk flashing across her features.

Wheeljack gave her an exasperated look, through see could easily see the humor and jest in his expression. “No walking,” he agreed, “but can you wiggle them?”

Ratchet pondered this for a moment before shaking his helm. “No.” Wheeljack sighed, giving the medic an apologetic smile.

“Okay, then let’s get you cleaned up and recharging.” He mumbled as he joined Prime yet again in scrubbing the sludge from Ratchet’s frame. Ratchet nodded, though he appeared as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was agreeing to. 

“We knew the chances of him regaining his mobility were slim,” Optimus reminded. Wheeljack didn’t respond. June, however, stood and straightened the scrubs she’d never bothered to change out of. 

“He’s stable,” she remarked, “I’m going to go check on the others. Call me if anything changes.” Optimus nodded, granting her the kind of smile that made her believe he was even more soft-sparked than he let on. For once, thankfully, the medibay doors only gave a soft groan as she left. 

Once Optimus had moved down to rub at his chest plates, Ratchet’s optics began to drift closed. His ventilation still sounded ragged, but smoother, and only a few seams on his sides now leaked CR fluid instead of it pouring from every gap it could squeeze through. Wheeljack hummed softly as he worked and Optimus ran a hand over Ratchet’s chevron, watching as he fell into a, for once, peaceful recharge. It was the first in a long time, and, the Prime hoped, would be the first of many.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just posted the wrong chapter... Oops, sorry about that if anyone managed to read it before I caught that. That would have been confusing.

"Nice one, Bulk," Wheeljack called with a whistle. "Harder this time." Bulkhead bounced on his pedes, pulling the tangled ball of metal back, using the momentum it provided to lob it with all his strength. The resulting throw sent Wheeljack skidding back across the training room floor. He grunted, sure that last one had dented something. 

"You okay, Jackie?" Bulkhead took a cautious step forward when Wheeljack didn't straighten immediately. 

He nearly fell backwards when Wheeljack slammed the ball into the ground, denting the cement. "That's what I'm talking about!" 

"Hey!" Both wreckers flinched at the high pitched shout, bracing themselves for a chewing out as Arcee slipped into the room. She stalked over to pry the ball out of the ground. Despite the femme's smaller stature, she easily tossed the ball back to Bulkhead with all her usual grace. 

"Sorry, 'Cee," Bulkhead mumbled. "We'll be more careful." 

Arcee scoffed. "Just be quieter. Ratch is going to try to spend some time out of the medibay."

Bulkhead put the lobbing ball away in one of the far corners of the hanger. "He's feeling that good, huh?" Wheeljack smiled right along with him. Ratchet was recovering much more quickly than any of them had expected. Within days of coming out of stasis he was speaking semi-coherent Cybertronian, though the multiple definitions of English words still escaped him.   
Ratchet had only been out of the CR Chambers for only a week and he’d managed to regain most motor control in his upper body. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be somewhat nauseous but by the time the children got off from school his systems had righted themselves.

His physical progress was amazing. His metal wellness, however, worried his teammates greatly. While he’d managed to regain his ability to speak somewhat coherently, it was slow and practically butchered. His sentences were short and simple and did not reflect his renowned intellect in the least.

June had gently reminded them each multiple times that it was far too early to tell just how much Ratchet would recover from the processor damage CCG had caused.

“He wanted to watch some shows with the kids,” Arcee elaborated. “It’s good mental stimulation even if he won’t get the program.” Ratchet had to be constantly engaged whenever he was awake. They’d found out rather quickly that when his environment went still, so did his mind. The medic would enter a state similar to an absent seizure. Once he entered that state it was extremely difficult to pull him out of it.

Bulkhead raised a brow. “Kids? I haven’t picked them up yet.” He gave Arcee a confused look, asking silently if she’d managed to pick up all three children, knowing Bumblebee had monitor duty for the afternoon. 

“Ratchet made it very clear he wants to watch TV with the kids,” Arcee suppressed a chuckle, “He doesn’t seem to care that they aren’t here.” 

“Or doesn’t understand,” Wheeljack smiled. She stopped his arm teasingly before turning for the door, beckoning the two others to follow.

“Be nice,” She chided, “He knows he’s not as smart as he should be. He’s frustrated. Give him a break, Wheeljack.”  
Wheeljack huffed, "I'm just joking with 'im." This time it was Wheeljack who glared at him. 

"Just don't let him hear you say that, Jackie. You know the doc's pretty touchy right now." Wheeljack returned the sad smile that flickered across his best friend's features. 

"Don't blame him one bit, Bulk. Not one bit." As they approached the main room Optimus already had Ratchet in his wheelchair and was attempting to get him situated beside the large couch. The medic, however, was instead preoccupied with something else entirely. He'd twisted himself to the side as much as he was able and was pointing back towards the medibay doors, an unreadable look to his features. Optimus finally crouched in front of him, following the medic's gaze. Ratchet mumble d several disconnected words that the group just approaching failed to make out.

"Normally, Ratchet, yes." Optimus nodded his helm, agreeing uncertainly to what Ratchet was commenting on. "I know, but we're going to watch some tv now." He reached up and gave the medic's hand a firm squeeze, attempting to regain his attention, but Ratchet remained stubbornly focused on the door.

The prime momentarily acknowledged Bulkhead's wave and comment that he and Wheeljack were going on patrol before picking up the children. "Noise," Ratchet interrupted, this time in English. 

"Noise?" Arcee echoed, coming to sit on the far side of the couch, allowing the Prime to sit next to Ratchet's chair. 

Optimus sighed as he sat down, flicking on the television with a wireless command. "He seems to be upset about the noise the medibay doors make, and the fact that they have not squeaked all morning."

"Seriously?" Arcee huffed, "I thought he was doing better today." 

"He was," Optimus agreed. "However his mind gets stuck in loops, such as the current situation."

"Noise," Ratchet repeated, upset at not being acknowledged. Arcee stood, moving to block Ratchet's view of the door. He attempted to see around her for a moment, moving his upper body in all directions to look through the gaps in the small femme’s armor. Eventually he gave up and glanced about the room, attempting to remember why he was there in the first place. The sight of Optimus flipping through the TV channels caught his attention almost immediately. 

"What are we watching?" He asked after a moment. Optimus looked over at him, surprised. It was rare that Ratchet managed to put together whole sentences in   
English in the correct order. Cybertronian used a very different configuration of words, much closer to Chinese.

"What would you like to watch?" Optimus asked after a moment. Ratchet shrugged. 

"TV." The moment the words left his mouth his optics dilated and his body stiffened. Arcee rolled her optics, sighing. 

"Seems his moments of coherency are getting shorter every time." She crossed her arms I over her chest as Optimus finally settled on a nature channel. Ratchet appeared satisfied with the chose as well, as he relaxed marginally and focused what little attention he had on the screen. 

"Perhaps," The Prime agreed, "but they've also been much more frequent these past few days. 

"Still," Arcee mumbled, wiggling further into the couch, "worried." 

Optimus reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Have faith. Ratchet is strong. He will regain himself given time."

The femme made a grunting sound, shaking her leader's hand free. "Not just worried about him." She glanced around Optimus, checking that Ratchet was still enraptured with the tv. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Hasn't been much in the way of con activity in two months. Few minor raids, but no real attacks." 

Optimus hummed, "I agree that their recent lack of activity has been rather troubling. Though currently beneficial for us, seeing as we are short our medic."

"And whoever decides to stay behind with him," Arcee agreed. "Still, I'd like to know what they're up to. Them going quiet like this has never ended well for us."

Optimus placed a hand on his chin leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. "Let us not make assumptions just yet. This is hardly the longest period they have gone quiet for." He check over his shoulder at Ratchet, watching him for a moment as the medic wiggled in his chair, gaze never leaving the tv. "Their activity has been minimal since Ratchet's capture." 

Arcee nodded slowly. "What, you think it has something to do with that?"

Optimus shook his helm sadly. "I do not know, but we never learned the whole story behind Ratchet's capture, only that Megatron was after the synthetic energon formula."

"He was pretty banged up when he came in too," Arcee mumbled before falling silent. When Optimus did not continue with his musings she glanced his direction.   
The Prime was silently watching Ratchet, his optics affectionate and gentle. Arcee's mouth quirked up into a barely there smile before dipping back into a frown. 

"Prime?" She whispered, "Do you think he was hacked?" The femme almost felt guilty when the smile Optimus wore vanished. He turned to meet her optics slowly, with an eerie grace. 

"That is my fear." His voice was tinged with anger. "I would not put it past the Decepticons." His words had been a touch too loud and Ratchet jolted behind him as if stung. He looked as if he was going to make an attempt to stand for a moment before Optimus was in front of him and pushing him back down. Arcee moved behind his chair, prepared to hold him down by his broad, unarmored shoulders if necessary. 

The medic opened his mouth and a weak gasp of static filled the air. The Prime rubbed at his thigh soothingly, momentarily forgetting that Ratchet could not feel it. "Shhh," he soothed, "it's alright, you're safe. You're safe." The panicking mech seemed to calm at the sound of Optimus' voice. After a moment of small twitches his fists clenched around the arms of the chair. 

"Cons?" Ratchet breathed, once his ventilations had settled. 

Optimus placed a hand on his, gently prying it off the chair arm to hold it in his own. Ratchet was shaking slightly. "We were simply discussing their recent lack of activity. There is nothing to worry about."

The medic nodded, settling further. "Okay," he mumbled shakily, "okay."

"Would it be alright if we asked you some questions, Ratchet?" Optimus approached the subject cautiously, aware of the worried looks Arcee sent him. Ratchet, however, considered the question and after a moment nodded. Optimus forwent tact at that point and simply opted to get the information he needed as quickly as possible. "During your time with the Decepticons, did they attempt to retrieve information from you forcefully?” Ratchet sat for a worryingly long moment, seemingly riveted to his chair. His optics darted about finally settling on Optimus. The Prime watched in intently for any sign of panic.

Finally Ratchet spoke, opening his mouth several times before any sound came out. “They tried.” 

Optimus felt as if he’d been hit with a freighter. He’d expected the answer but had desperately hoped against it. There were several ways of getting information from an unwilling Cybertronian. Torture was the easiest and the safest for the interrogator but tended to provide the least reliable information. Hacking was the next best option. However, it required a skilled specialist to blast through a mechs firewalls and access specific information within their processors. This could be extremely dangerous for the assailant if the victim was skilled in the same art. The Decepticons would have risked a virus or hacking from the Autobot side if they had pitted anyone against Ratchet. Though the medic was not an interrogator and had never been, he was extremely talented when it came to programming and the Cybertronian processor. 

The final, most invasive form of gaining information, the one that worried Optimus the most, was a forced spark merge. Normally merges served as a form of sharing experiences, emotions and often pleasure. They were highly intimate and only preformed willingly amongst close friends or couples. However, the information that was passed between two bots when merged could not be falsified. A spark merge initiated with the intention of hacking or harm was often painful for both participants, but would form a small scar, an impurity, on the spark of the victim. The impurity could be treated and would eventually fade, but would sap small amounts of energy from the host spark until removed, often causing physical and emotional ailments. 

Optimus resisted the urge to rub at his finials, feeling a helm ache forming. "I must ask, Ratchet. Did they get anything?" The medic's mouth immediately quirked into an expression halfway between a smile and a grimace. His optics flickered away from the Prime, instead peering over his left shoulder. 

"TV," Ratchet sounded almost smug, but his optics were distant, indicating that he'd lost interest in the conversation. 

"Oookay," Arcee breathed from over Ratchet's shoulder. "I think it’s time to head back to the medibay. The kids will be back soon.” 

Ratchet immediately shook his helm, almost frantically. "No," he protested, "TV."

"I believe Arcee is right, Ratchet," Optimus agreed, standing to move behind the mech's wheelchair. "It’s nearly time for your supplements anyway."  
Ratchet made a low grumbling noise in his throat, but conceded without any further protest to allow Optimus to wheel him back to the medibay.

"Gonna go check on how Bee's coming along with the monitors," Arcee offered before turning to head back to the ops room. 

"We can come back here later, Ratchet," Optimus consoled the practically pouting medic. "Once you've gotten your meds and the children have settled. I'm sure they would be pleased to spend some time with you." Ratchet watched the medibay door intently as they approached it. When it opened its customary squeak was yet again absent. The medic's face lit up. With a satisfied nod he returned what little focus he had to his Prime.

Optimus gently lifted the medic up onto the berth closest the door, the one he'd most frequently been occupying during his illness. He'd grown accustom to this one and would often grow upset if he were placed on the far berth. After Ratchet was settled, berth tilted up to keep him in a sitting position, Optimus went about gathering the supplies he would need to make Ratchet's afternoon energon. 

Certain supplements that Cybertronians normally absorbed through the air, such a cybertronium, Ratchet's recovering systems had a hard time processing. They needed to be taken orally instead. The mixture of cybertronium, boron, iron and ammonia with already thick medical grade energon made for a soupy liquid, almost like warm jello instead of its normal water like consistency. He grimaced at the smell of it and added a liberal sprinkling of mercury to the top, Ratchet's favorite additive. It would do little to help the overall flavor but they'd found out rather quickly that it did make Ratchet more agreeable when it came to drinking his rations.

Optimus carried the cub over to the medic, who was carefully examining a wrench that had been left near the berth. "Filthy," he commented. "Towel, please?"   
Optimus grabbed the towel Ratchet motioned to and placed it just out of his reach.

"You can do that after you've had your energon." The medic glared at Optimus but took the cub from him anyway. Optimus watched with equal amounts of sympathy and amusement as Ratchet steeled himself for the bitter taste he knew was to come. When the first gulp had made it past his lips his whole upper body shuddered in disgust.

Ratchet gulped down the rest of the energon as quickly as he could. “Primus, that’s nasty,” He complained as he handed the now empty cube back to Optimus, who accepted it with a sympathetic smile.

“But it’s still better than the IV, isn’t it?” He asked, handing Ratchet the promised polishing cloth. Ratchet considered the question for a long moment before giving a sharp nod of his helm. At least the taste was temporary. The IV stung if his arm was moved and had to remain in the majority of the time. It was also an inconvenience every time he wanted to go anywhere, not that he did very often anymore.

Once his space had been cleared and Optimus was involved in cleaning up what he’d removed from the cabinets, Ratchet set about polishing the wrench in his lap. The main, broader surfaces where easy to get to a shine. The smaller details, however, did not as easily relinquish their tarnish. The medic pressed the small fabric towel into the cracks and seems, rubbing vigorously. When he pulled the cloth away the tarnish remained. Ratchet huffed, returning to scrubbing again. He twisted the wrench about, attempting to find an angle that he could properly remove the grime. Yet again his efforts were futile. The grime remained. 

Optimus watched from behind the cube he was cleaning. After Ratchet’s forth attempt he had to hid a smile behind the datapad he’d been reading earlier in the day. The medic was growing frustrated, quickly. 

Optimus couldn't help a small snicker when Ratchet finally slammed the wrench down in his lap, evidently having exceeded his patience for the day. Silently the Prime pulled a small que-tip like object from a draw. When the Autobots had first begun to settle into their base Ratchet had complained about the lack of proper cleaning supplies to Agent Fowler until the government agent had finally caved and order a bulk shipment of saxophone cleaners and uncut polishing rags. While not perfect, the instrument cleaners were easy for the large bots to handle and worked sufficiently for the needed task. Optimus handed the cleaner to Ratchet, who seemed shocked that the Prime would have kept such a valuable tool from him at all. 

With the medic occupied with cleaning his favorite wrench to perfection, Optimus settled into a nearby chair and resumed reading the report Fowler had provided him with that morning. The text detailed exactly what he already knew: very little to no Decepticon activity had occurred in the past month. The enemy was as silent as they had been during Megatron's five year voyage into space. The Prime sighed and forced himself not to worry just yet. 

Being on earth had greatly changed the Cybertronians' view of time. A single earth week was just barely longer than a day to the Autobots. Twenty-four hours was a dizzyingly short amount of time. Adjusting to the rapid pace that humans lived by had been a challenge to even Bumblebee, who tended to adjust to alien environments faster than anyone else. Ratchet had had a particularly difficult time. He remained on duty for days at a time, what would be a normal shift on Cybertron, only to take the equivalent of a human rest period, eight hours. He'd worked himself to collapse within a month. 

That had not been the first or last time the medic had exhausted himself working. Ratchet was known as an insomniac to the crew of the Ark, and was watched closely by his colleague when any injury more severe than scratched paint was present in the medibay. After battles Ratchet often had to be dragged to berth or have his CMO status threatened by the Prime himself before he finally allowed himself to recharge. 

Optimus smiled. Ratchet had not changed much, despite every horror the war had wrought. When he'd owned a small walk in clinic before the war, he was just as grouchy and unkind to the fools he was forced to suffer. Even if the patient was a complete stranger, Ratchet was known to provide as many dents as he fixed. The locals, typically poorer lower class mechs, were extremely fond of their medic. He was fair, did good work and charged only on an honor system. If you could pay you did. If not, then the service was free and he would never turn down a patient due to a lack of credits. The only time he had turned down a mech, in fact, was when the mech had threatened another patient, demanding to have his bent arm strut repaired before the other mech's internal bleeding could be seen to. Ratchet had the mech removed from his waiting room by the two burly twins he'd just finished seeing to. 

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had watched over Ratchet's clinic diligently since the yellow mech had first been dragged through the door, bleeding profusely from an outmatched street fight, by his distraught red twin. When the war began the twins had joined the Autobots instantly, but had stubbornly refused to be deployed anywhere beyond Polyhex, where Ratchet's clinic resided. 

Optimus glanced up from his musings when the sound of a tool clattering to the floor caught his attention. The Prime cursed when he caught sight of Ratchet. His hands were still held in front of him, frozen as if still cleaning his wrench. He shook minutely, small tremors wracking his frame. His optics stared straight ahead, unfocused and wide in distress. Optimus had seen the medic like this plenty over the last three months, when his mind would stall or be preparing for a seizure. In the last week however, there had been no sign of it.

Optimus stood, placing his datapad on his stool and came around the side of the berth. "Ratchet?" He asked, voice soft as not to startle his companion if he'd simply zoned out. The medic did not act as if he'd heard. "Ratchet." Optimus tried again, louder. When he still gained no reaction he activated his comm. link. 

"What's up, Prime?" Wheeljack's voice was rough with static and Optimus could hear the wind whistle about the Lancia as he sped down the jasper roads. 

"I am in need of assistance." There was a pause as the connection faded in and out. Wheeljack must have been at the edge of town, where the signal was often distorted by the town's radio signals. 

"Ratchet?" Wheeljack asked. "I'm on my way. ETA: ten minutes." 

Optimus shook his helm, "I need you to pick up June. She should have the evening off today." He watched Ratchet carefully, trying to spot any major change in his behavior to determine the nature of this attack. 

"Gotcha," Wheeljack chirped in the affirmative. "Make that ETA twenty minutes." With a screech of tires the comm. clicked off. Optimus returned his full attention to Ratchet.

"Ratchet?" He asked again, hoping desperately for a response. 

The medic's helm twitched minutely. He opened his mouth, letting it hang there a moment before speaking. "Hurts."

Optimus reached forward to encompass his smaller hands in one of his own, easing them down into Ratchet's lap. "Okay," he tried to make his voice as soothing as possible. "What hurts?" The medic didn't respond. "Ratchet, focus. Talk to me. What hurts?"

Ratchet gave another small jolt, this time his whole upper body twitching. "My head."

Optimus forced back a shudder. A hem ache was a very bad sign.

“Okay,” Optimus soothed. “Let’s lie down and see if that helps.” The berth’s upper half was propped up by a simply locking bar underneath it. Optimus reached under the berth and eased it as gently as he could into a horizontal position. Ratchet groaned, jerking again. His hands curled into fists in his lap, tensing and releasing with the throbbing of his helm.

“Arcee!” Optimus yelled over his shoulder. Ratchet startled at the sound. He reached up and groped for Optimus’ hand. The Prime gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze as Arcee skidded through the medibay doors. She watched Ratchet for a moment before moving to his other side.

“Absent seizure?” She asked. Optimus shook his helm.

“No, he’s responding.” Optimus ran his free hand over the medic’s arm. “He’s complaining of a helm ache, however.”

“Ratchet,” Arcee directed her attention back to the medic, who was now staring blankly at the ceiling. “Ratchet, can you hear me?” The white mech’s optics slid to meet Arcee’s larger ones. He nodded slowly, optics flickering in pain. “Good. I want you to count to ten, okay?” Ratchet stared at her before nodding. “One,” Arcee began.

“Two,” Optimus joined her, nudging at Ratchet’s arm to attempt to get him to participate.

“Three,” Arcee slowed her words, making sure to pronounce each number as clearly as she could.

Optimus gave Arcee a troubled look when Ratchet continued to remain unresponsive. He simply sat and trembled. The Prime did the only thing he could think of and switched from English to clear Protihexian cant. ::Four.::

::Fivesixseven,:: Ratchet’s vocalize spurt static as he whistled out the words.

Arcee frowned, but carried on anyway. ::Eight.:: She followed Optimus’ example and spoke in Cybertronian. 

::One,:: Ratchet began, slower this time, ::two, three, four.:: As he continued, still speaking in Cybertronian, Optimus spared Arcee a confused and worried look. She returned it. Neither knew what this was. ::Seven, eight, nine.:: 

"Should we get his seizure meds?" Arcee whispered over the medic. 

::Eleven, twelve, ten.::

Optimus nodded. "I'll get them." 

::Two, three, three.::

Optimus made to stand. The moment he let go of the medic's arm, Ratchet's hand shot out and caught the seam between his hip and his waist. The Prime hissed at the sudden contact to such a sensitive and rarely touched area. 

::Five, two, nine,:: Ratchet continued, optics locked on the Prime's hand. 

Slowly Optimus turned back, as careful as possible to not pinch Ratchet's shaking fingers in his plating. Arcee chuckled when he began prying the fingers one by one from his plating, only for them to clamp down again the moment he released them. 

"I’ll get 'em, Prime." Optimus nodded, grateful.

::You have to let go, Ratchet,:: he practically begged. The mech's tight grip was beginning to dent. ::I promise I will not leave but you are going to hurt us both.::

::My head hurts,:: Ratchet slurred as he reluctantly released Optimus. He shook harder with every passing moment.

"Arcee," Optimus called. The femme returned to his side, holding the near empty bottle of Ratchet's seizure medication. They both watched solemnly as the pained mech's twitching turned into small spasms. 

"He's starting to seize," Arcee absently mumbled, reiterating what they both already knew. Ratchet let out a pained gasp as his head rose and slammed back against the berth. Optimus quickly placed a hand behind his helm, cradling it. 

"I thought we were done with these," the femme whispered.

Optimus didn't look up from Ratchet, expression stricken. He'd believed the same. The medic's vocalizer spat static and tonal cries as he jerked. His optics flickered in time with his convulsions. 

"Be prepared with his meds," Optimus urged. Arcee scrambled to fill the syringe in her hand. The Prime placed an arm across Ratchet’s chest, rubbing circles over the plating. When the medic’s seizing only increased, Optimus glanced to the femme across from him. She held up the syringe, gently tapping the air bubbles out of it before lowering it to the arm Optimus was pinning. The moment the needle touched his protoform, Ratchet emitted a loud, binary groan. His frame trembled, platting clattering against the berth.

“Hold him still.” Arcee’s voice was tense and sharp. She focused on moving the needle with his arm as not to break it. Optimus grunted in acknowledgment, placing as much weight as he dared on Ratchet’s arm. The position was awkward and provided little balance. With one hand under Ratchet’s helm, Optimus had to lean at an odd angle to properly pin the medic. Arcee injected the liquid as quickly as possible, and pulled the needle free. Optimus released Ratchet’s arm to focus on holding his helm. Arcee was silent, simply watching and waiting. The only sound in the room was Ratchet’s gasping vents and squealing servos. 

The roar of engines emitted from the main room. Wheeljack jogged in a moment later, June dwarfed within his hands.

“He’s seizing?” June asked, leaping down from Wheeljack’s hand when he held her over the observation deck.

“He was complaining of a helm ache before the attack,” Optimus provided, “He’s had a dose of medication already.”

June leaned forward on the railing, watching Ratchet jerk. “How long’s the attack lasted?”

Arcee glanced to Optimus before responding. “About five minutes. It hasn’t slowed at all either.”

June nodded. “Okay. There’s not much we can do but wait. Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. Talking to him might also help.”

Optimus glanced back down to the medic, drawing in a deep vent. ::It’s okay, Ratchet,:: He attempted, ::Just relax and you’ll be fine.:: The medic did not respond, continuing to stare at the ceiling as he spasmed. The larger mech startled when a hand landed on his shoulder. Wheeljack gave him an empathetic smile as he eased next to the Prime at the berth’s edge.

::Hey, Ratch,:: He said, voice loud and clear as he took the other’s hand. ::It’s Jack, bud.:: He glanced back at June, who nodded for him to continue. ::Remember when I was working on compacting that fusion drive back in Protihex? Blew my whole workshop sky high.:: He chuckled, grinning when Ratchet’s helm jerked towards him. ::Boy where you pissed. Took you a whole decacycle to put me back together.::

“It’s not slowing,” Wheeljack heard Arcee whisper at his back.

“Go ahead and sedate him,” June responded, voice resigned, saddened.

“Is that safe?” Arcee asked, already moving towards the cabinet where the sedatives were kept.

“This goes on much longer and brain damage is guaranteed.” Arcee signed, providing Wheeljack with a sad smile when the mech pinned Ratchet’s arm to the berth once more. She easily slipped the stasis drive into his medical port and watched in silence as the code was integrated. Ratchet’s twitching eased to a subtle shake, his optics dimming and falling shut before his frame had stilled. The room’s audience allowed themselves to breath only one the medic’s ventilations slowed to an even, natural pace. 

No one move. No one spoke. The silence that filled the medibay was all consuming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now a timeline that I created for reference (my own mostly) over on my tumblr: http://blind-kestrel.tumblr.com/post/59562180351/an-event-timeline-for-my-story-with-all-weve-lost


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in the previous chapter:   
> "English"  
> ::Cybertronian::

Arcee was the first to break the silence. "I-I'm going to go see if the children are here."

"Bulk should be back by now," Wheeljack called after her retreating frame. With that he fell heavily onto the far berth, helm in his hands. "'tis never been that bad," he mumbled in his palms. Optimus sighed from where he sat still holding the medic's helm off the berth. 

"Ms. Darby?" He spared a glance back at June. The nurse shook her head. 

"I don't know, Optimus," she breathed, "I'm sorry. I just don't know." She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly. "We're going to have to run more tests," she said after a long moment of silence. "Not now. Let him rest some. But later."

"Do you think it’s back?" Wheeljack's expression was grief stricken by simply uttering the words. 

"I don't-," June stuttered, voice breaking, "I-".

"It's alright Ms. Darby," Optimus assured. June shook, taking several deep breaths before daring to continue.

"The possibility's high. I'm sorry." She hunched forward over the railing, fidgeting in discomfort. "He's showing the same symptoms as the other patients when they were treated using the CR Chamber: A short period of progress and great improvement only to grow ill more quickly and severely than before." She followed   
Wheeljack's example and buried her face in her hands. "Oh God, I'm so sorry." Quiet gasps indicated she'd begun to cry.

Optimus' thumb ran absent minded circles over Ratchet's chevron. "None of this is your fault, June. We're not even sure what the problem is just yet."

"Can't be good," Wheeljack mumbled, frowning. 

"It may not be as bad as we fear," Optimus reminded.

"Did you speak English before you were made Prime, OP?" Wheeljack chuckled, "'cause your name can not be coincidence."

Optimus frowned, "My title as Prime was chosen by the senate and derived from my original designation: Orion Pax." 

Wheeljack batted at the air. "No, no. I mean Optimus, optimist." The Prime blinked at him blankly. The wrecker shook his helm. "Know what? Never mind. Doesn't matter." He returned his helm to his hands with a clang. 

June's light hiccups had turned to small chuckles. She pulled herself up a barely there smile gracing her lips. "Optimus is right. We should wait and see what some scans say before jumping to conclusions." She pulled up a chair to one of the computer terminals connected to the medibay's equipment. "Wheelajck, run a condensed processor scan please."

Optimus glanced over his shoulder as the wrecker stood to gather the requested supplies. "And myself?"

June smiled warmly. "Why don't you go and get some rest, we can handle this." Optimus opened his mouth to protest but June held up a hand to cut him off.   
"Wheeljack told me you'd been with Ratchet since two in the morning. I'm pretty sure taking care of sickly bots is a part of your Primely duties." 

Optimus shook his helm. "Not directly, no. But healing the broken is."

June smiled, "Ratchet isn't broken." 

The Prime returned her warm gaze. "It's not yet late enough to warrant any recharge. But I will go see to my other duties for a time." He eased Ratchets limp helm back to the berth, providing the medic with one last worried look before standing. "Please inform me immediately if anything changes." June nodded and shooed him off with a flick of her wrist.

The Prime made no protest, understanding the need for a break for the stressful environment. The medibay doors squeaked shut behind him. 

Once into the main bay, Optimus spotted Bulkhead and Bumblebee sitting on the floor with the children. They had a board game laid out between them. As the bots called out numbers their smaller companions would move the delicate pieces for them.

“E8,” Bulkhead called, grinning madly when Bumblebee made a disappointed warble, indicating a hit to one of his pieces. The scout frowned behind his face guard and called out a number of his own. Bulkhead’s smile grew as he shook his helm.

Jack glanced up at the sound of Optimus’ heavy pede falls. “Hey, Optimus,” he called. “Wanna play? You can go against the winner.”

Optimus held up a hand. “No thank you, Jack. I’d hoped to go for a drive as long as I’m not presently needed.”

“We’ve got everything covered here, Boss,” Bulkhead said, intensely focused on studying the board, as if the longer he stared at it the more likely it was for him to suddenly develop x-ray vision.

“Thank you, Bulkhead.” Optimus folded himself into his alt-mode in one graceful lurch.

Jack leapt up and jogged towards the semi. “Mind some company?” Optimus was silent for a moment, only the sound of his rumbling engine permeating his frame. Finally his passenger side door swung open. Jack climbed in without further thought, buckling his seat belt before he’d even settled. The semi rumbled through the base’s main entrance and out onto the open Jasper roads. 

Optimus relished in the sensation of the wind batting at his plating and whistling through his grill. It was rare he was allowed on such excursions, as may duties as he had on base. Back on Cybertron, when he still bore the title of Orion Pax, he’d found it soothing to simply cruse the speedways with no real destination in mind when work in the archives had piled up too high. The roads on Earth were no as smooth and he often missed the anit-gravs he’s traded for wheels but the effect was the same. He could already feel his frayed nerves easing into something manageable. 

“Nice day, huh?” Optimus’ wheels squealed against the road as he was startled out of his musings. The boy in his passenger seat couldn’t decide whether to look embarrassed or to laugh. “Sorry,” he coughed, sheepish, “didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Best you did,” Optimus answered. “It is not safe for me to be so distracted while driving.” Jack hummed. 

“Something weighing on your mind, big guy?” Jack asked cautiously. He knew that Ratchet’s latest development, though he knew little of it, was difficult for everyone and highly worrisome. However he could sense more than worry in Optimus’ tone.

“Nothing you need to worry over,” Optimus assured.

“You’re worrying about it,” Jack pointed out. “You know, I’m not that young. I do know what’s going on.”

Optimus chuckled, turning sharply onto a road that lead back towards the base. “Jack, your entire race is young to Cybertronians. Even Bumblebee is much older than your civilization.”

Jack frowned. He drummed his fingers against the seat. “What’s that like?” He asked, “Living so long?” 

Optimus’ engine rumbled in consideration. “Often detrimental to our race. You hold an advantage over us that we could never dream of or truly want.” Jack gave the steering wheel at his left the most puzzled look he could. 

"Death is something new to the war, Jack," Optimus began. "Before the Decepticon rebellions began we knew even disease in only small numbers. One mech dying was rare and a tragic event." The Prime paused, drawing in a deep gust of air. "We are, in all practicality, immortal until we are killed by an outside source. This means that most of our rulers had been in power for far too long. Politics were easily corrupted and difficult to change. Fresh minds in the senate were near inexistent."

Jack rubbed at his neck, eyebrows furrowed. "But you guys refer to Ratchet as old all the time." Optimus' engine rumbled in acknowledgment. 

"His spark is older than most. Ratchet is one of the few golden age mechs remaining. The majority of us were forged during the war or the unrest that preceded it." The Prim’s gearshift made a sound similar to a clicking tongue as he considered the right words to use. "Ratchet will be in need of his fifth frame transfer within the next vorn. In the war, most mechs are lucky to reach their second adult frame."

"Frame transfer?" Jack sounded almost disgusted, having an inkling of what Optimus may be referring to. 

The Prime hummed in acknowledgement. "Our sparks are eternal. Our frames are not," he explained. "As younglings we go through three frame transfers as we grow. Similar to your childhood development. Once we are fully matured our adult frames will support us for thousands of vorns at a time, but eventually parts wear beyond repair and our sparks, processors and t-cogs must be moved to a new host." 

Jack sat silently for a moment, taking in the information. “So, this whole CCG thing. Couldn’t you have just popped him in a new body and be done with it.”

Optimus’ dash flashed in the negative. “No, if that had been the case then his original upgrades as a youngling would have negated the disease, as it is genetic. 

Chronic Circuit Glitch is a disease of the mind, not the body. It is a glitch in the central processors, the area that controls the nervous system, that, when activated, spreads through a mech’s programming and corrupts all it touches. Eventually it reaches the core programming of the spark and the mech is extinguished. The processor must be transferred when the spark is. A frame change would have had no benefits and would likely have caused too much stress on his mind and spark.”

“I think I get it,” Jack mumbled with no small amount of uncertainty. “The whole idea of having a new body every few thousand years is just kind of weird.”

Before the Prime could respond, Optimus' comm. crackled to life.

"Base to Prime," Bulkhead's baritone echoed over the link.

"Go ahead, Bulkhead," Optimus replied. "We read you."

"Ratchet's coming around, Prime. I can bridge you back if you want." The comm. link hissed static threateningly as the semi passed under an unpopulated highway. 

"A bridge would be appreciated.” On cue a flash of iridescent blue filled the road ahead of the pair, expanding and twisting into a tunnel of energy. There was a dizzying lurch as Prime passed through the section of condensed space-time and then the Autobot base spread before them. Jack leapt out the moment Optimus' passenger door swung open and stood back while the bot's platting folded itself in ways that should not have been possible. Optimus waved goodbye to the humans and preceded to the medibay, the door sliding shut silently behind him.

June sat in her regular spot at the monitors while Wheeljack stood next to Ratchet's berth, holding his hand. The ill mech looked about the room groggily, optics unfocused and frame relaxed. Optimus placed a hand on Wheeljack's shoulder before turning to face June.

"Did the processor scans reveal anything?" He asked, cautious of the answer.

June shook her head, "I couldn't find any change. Or any trace of the glitch in for that matter." She rubbed at the back of her neck nervously. "Normally CCG shows in processor scans as dormant areas in the motor and cognitive centers. Almost everything was active. I'd say it looked better than it did when he first came out of the CR Chamber."

Optimus smiled. "This is good news."

June nodded, brow still furrowed in frustration and bafflement. "We'll know more once he can talk to us."

"Thank you, June." Optimus strode over to stand on the opposite side of the berth from Wheeljack. He took up Ratchet's other hand and gave the medic's fingers a light squeeze. Ratchet's optics rolled to look into Optimus', and the medic smiled.

::Hi,:: he mumbled, voice rough and barely a whisper. 

::Hello, Ratchet.:: The Prime smiled back. ::How are you feeling.::

::Achy.:: The medic didn't miss Wheeljack’s startled glance between himself and June, even though the human could not understand the conversation. "Fairly lucid, actually."

Optimus' grin widened. ::That is very good to hear. Does your helm still hurt?::

::Some.:: Ratchet nodded.

"Optimus," June called from her seat at the computer. "Why don't you run him through a few basic tests?" The Prime glanced up in acknowledgement before returning his attention the mech on the medical berth. 

::Ratchet,:: he began, ::we want to see how aware you are. Could you count to ten? In any language.:: 

::One, two, three, four.:: The medic completed the task with ease, the worlds rolling easily off his glossa. Optimus gave his hand another squeeze when he'd finished, acknowledging and thanking him. 

::Good,:: he praised. ::Can you do the same in English?"::Ratchet nodded.

"One, two." He paused, mind reeling to catch up to his mouth. "Three, four, five." He managed to complete the rest of the task with relative ease, even if the foreign language felt uncomfortable on his denta. The smile on his Prime's face was well worth it, however. 

"Raise both arms as high as you can, please," June called. The mechs at Ratchet's sides released their holds on him so he could do as asked. His movements were shaking and it felt as if his fuel lines had been filled with lead, but eventually, Ratchet managed to raise his hands a few feet above the berth, much to everyone's delight. He flashed a smirk at June, genuine joy radiating from his expression. 

"I'm-I'm impressed," June remarked after a moment o f hesitation. "I honestly don't know exactly what to make of this."

Ratchet simply grinned wider. “It’s good.”

June chuckled, “Very.” She tapped a few positive notes into the datapad in her hands before returning to a more professional demeanor. “How’s communication? 

Thinking? Are you getting the words you want out?” 

Ratchet thought for a moment, gaze drifting to the ceiling. “Mostly, yes. Things are a little sluggish but more like a slow boot-up than any real processor errors. English feels a bit funny.”

“Well, you couldn’t put Cybertronian sentences together this morning. I’m not going to complain about a little bit of lag.” June grinned at him widely. 

“I agree,” Optimus hummed. “It is good to have you back, old friend.” Wheeljack gave the medic’s arm a pat in agreement.

“I’ll say,” Ratchet chuckled, “This last week has been more than frustrating.” He froze suddenly, body tensing, causing everyone in the room to brace for another seizure. None were sure they could cope if this moment of clarity was only temporary. The outburst that followed the silence was much preferred to the possible alternatives. 

“You aft brained glitch!” Ratchet bellowed, giving the Prime’s hand a genuinely frustrated smack. Optimus startled, jerking away from the evidently irritated medic out of instinct. “TV! I gave him fragging television!”

Optimus looked desperately around the room. “I’m sorry, Ratchet,” He practically stuttered, “I don’t believe I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” Ratchet snorted. “Soundwave. I gave Soundwave clips of the children’s television shows. It frustrates and distracts me, why not him?”

Wheeljack burst out laughing, deep baritone gasps that shook his frame until he was holding his sides, doubled over. “The fragging communications master of the whole slagging arming,” he gasped between hysteric hiccups, “stumped by entertainment for human children. I wish I could have seen the look on that ugly glitch’s broken faceplates.” He wound himself up into another uncontrolled fit. Ratchet grinned, waiting for Wheeljack to calm some before attempting to speak over him.

“Gave me a nasty electrical shock once he figured out what I was up to,” Ratchet chuckled. Wheeljack laughed even louder, now wheezing to keep up with the heat his frame was putting off.

“Even-” he paused, gasping for cooler air. “Even Megatron’s third gets pissed. I didn’t know he knew what emotions are.” By now even Optimus was chuckling lightly. Only Ratchet noticed the medibay door cracking open. Bulkhead peaked through, glancing about. He found Ratchet’s optics, startled by the clarity he found there.

“You okay?” He mouthed, not wanting to interrupt. Ratchet nodded, winking at the ex-wrecker. Smiling had always proved difficult for a mech o Bulkhead’s facial structure, especially with his large lower jaw guard. He pulled it off spectacularly, however. 

As quietly as he came in, the large mech left. A moment later muffled cheering echoed through the medibay from beyond the doors. The laughter inside quieted as the mechs glanced at the door. Optimus gave Ratchet a confused look.

“Bulkhead checked to make sure no one in here was dying,” the medic explained.

Optimus nodded. “For once, no one is.”

“For once,” Ratchet sighed, a smile gracing his faceplates. 

\--

Ratchet heaved a relief sigh as Optimus wheeled him through the doors to his quarters, relishing in the lack of beeping equipment and the overbearing sterile smell of the medibay. His quarters had been cleaned to his rather ridiculous standards, thanks to the human children along with their guardians, and Fowler had a hand in acquiring a foam mattress for the berth. The medic couldn't have been more thankful. While the medibay berths tended to be well equipped for handling all manner of injuries, they were far from comfortable. His already mangled backstruts were thrumming in a constant dull ache. 

The medic's contentment at being back in his own space was quickly dashed as Arcee and Bumblebee dragged in armfuls of monitoring equipment after him. He snorted, "I'm still not convinced that any of this is necessary." Optimus locked his wheelchair next to the berth and began helping the others set up the more delicate technology. Years of thumbing through old books had made his fingers dexterous and precise. 

"We talked about this, Ratchet," June huffed as she sauntered in, tired of the conversation already. "You have three options: stay in the medibay, have someone in here with you at all times or be hooked up to a few simple machines. They won't even make any noise." 

Ratchet crossed his arms over his chest with a ‘tch’. "The likelihood of a seizure decreases every day I remain without one." 

June rolled her eyes. "And you seem to fail to grasp that you had your worse seizure to date only last afternoon. It hasn't even been a day, Ratchet."

"And the levels of phantom haptic discharge in and around my processor have dramatically decreased in that time period. There are practically no lingering ill effects." Ratchet leveled the nurse with a challenging glare.

"No ill effects, my behind. Explain to me, mister, why you still have a noticeable slur if there are no ill effects." June snapped back. She caught Bulkhead's wide grin seconds after Ratchet did.

"What is so funny, you lug," he snapped, though all hostility was absent from his tone.

Bulkhead shook his helm, "We've missed you is all." He patted the medic's shoulder before slipping a cord into the port on the back of his helm. "Just good to have you back. Grump and all." Ratchet huffed and swatted at the wrecker's hand, trying desperately to hide a smile behind his lopsided frown. 

Optimus knelt next to the medic, one hand slipping behind the small of his back while the other rested on his limp knees. "Ready?" he asked. At the medic's nod the Prime hefted him into his arms and onto the berth in one graceful motion. Ratchet grunted when his back hit the berth. Although the brake in his spinal struts was hidden in tightly sealed cyber-mesh patches, the area directly above the break was still hyper sensitive as the frayed nerve endings fired without cause. Even supported by countless cushioning as he was the sitting up for a long period of time was extremely uncomfortable. Not that laying down was much better.

Optimus muttered an apology and stood back, allowing the others to hook up the various machines now whirring away at the berthside. Ratchet grumble and swatted at one of them when they would come close enough but for the most part cooperated. Once he was settled and the monitors read steady vitals all but Optimus vacated the room. The Prime sat at the edge of the berth, starring into the middle distance. Ratchet watched him for a moment before interrupting his trance. 

"Don't you have work you should be doing?" Ratchet heaved an arm off the berth to place a hand at Optimus' back. 

The Prime was silent for a moment. "They have all been very brave," he mumbled. 

Ratchet nodded, humming. "You have quite the band of soldiers, Prime." The larger mech smiled down at his friends.

"You included, old friend." Ratchet felt his spark flutter at the complement. He tugged absently at the quilt covering his lower half.

"Hopeful I'll be back to being actually useful soon," he muttered. "All of this lounging has me twitchy." A deep baritone chuckle rumbled from the Prime, low enough to be felt. 

"You never did take any sort of lull in activity well." He ran a large, flat hand over Ratchet's more delicate, rounded fingers. The medic’s hands had always amazed Optimus. When he was younger, the medic had been near paranoid about anyone touching or holding his hands. They were so sensitive that barely too much pressure caused biting pain. It was one of the major reasons he’d decided to forgo any sort of firearms: recoil hurt. Though with the medical knowledge Ratchet possessed, he was much more efficient with bladed weapons.

Ratchet raised his hand once Optimus had pulled his away. He held it out in front of him, watching what had kept so many alive during the start of the war tremble and shake. The Prime watched him with a deep sadness and an even greater sense of hope. When the medic finally lowered his hand he was left staring into the distance. 

“Optimus?” He asked, voice cautious. The Prime hummed for Ratchet to continue. “What is that?” He pointed across the quarters at his desk. Upon the scratched and, in several places, burned metal sat a small pot. Within the artificial soil several perfectly cultivated crystals grew, a yellow one standing proudly above the rest.

“Your crystals,” the Prime stated without hesitation.

“No,” Ratchet retorted after a moment of stuttering. “Those are your crystals. I gave them to you.” His tone was genuinely hurt, something rare in the normally temperamental medic.

“In the belief that you were dying.” Optimus placed a hand back on Ratchet’s. The medic snatched his away.

“So I have to be dying for you to accept my gifts?” Ratchet voice rose, gaining more static with each debacle.

“Ratchet,” The Prime’s tone hung on the edge of reprimanding. “When you are no longer able, I will gladly care for that which is precious to you, whatever it may be. Until then, however, the responsibility is yours.” Ratchet’s jaw opened and closed with each incomprehensible noise his voice box emitted. 

Finally he managed to regain his composure. “Who said some crystals were precious to me?”

Optimus resisted the urge to roll his optics. “You have carried them with you since the fall of Polyhex.”

“So?” Ratchet snapped.

“First Aid gave them to you.” The larger mech felt little remorse in pulling forth such a weapon. Ratchet was stubborn, when he’d set his mind to something he would stick with it at almost any cost. It often took a shock factor to snap him out of the habit. 

The trick worked. Ratchet sobered immediately. He glanced down at his lap, optics half lidded, irritation gone. “He did.”

Optimus watched him for a moment before standing. He walked gracefully across the room and picked up the pot of crystals. With as much care as he had handled the medic the rightful ruler of Cybertron set the inorganic flowers down on the berthside table. He dipped a finger in the energon cube beside the pot and let the liquid drip from his digit into the soil. The crystals resonated with each drop that pinged off their smooth surface. 

“Get some rest, Ratchet.” He moved silently to the door, well beyond the medic’s reach. “We are but a comm. away if you need anything.” Ratchet was silent until the Prime’s hand hovered over pad to close the door. 

“That was a mean trick,” he mumbled, gaze still turned down.

“I know,” Optimus replied.

“I deserved it.”

“What happened to First Aid was not your fault, Ratchet.” Optimus stepped back inside, allowing the door to shut behind him.

“I could have saved him.” Ratchet’s voice was growing smaller by the moment. “If I’d had the chance.”

Optimus shook his helm. “We are not even sure he is gone, Ratchet. I apologize for bringing the subject to mind.” Guilt was something the Prime felt often, with his home planet dead, but not something he enjoyed.

“I know,” Ratchet nodded absently. “I know.”

“And if he did survive, you will have the chance to see your pupil again, Old Friend. A chance we were not sure you had an orn ago.” A barely there smile crept over Ratchet’s features. 

“Go do your work, Optimus.” His tone was brighter, lighter, than mere moments ago. “I’ll be fine here.” 

Optimus sighed but agreed, turning to leave. “I will bring you a data pad to work on when you are awake.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Ratchet smiled, leaning back as far as he could against this mountain of pillows. His optics slid shut. Optimus slipped out as quietly as he could. 

Wheeljack was waiting for him in the hallway, looking for all the world as if he were standing guard. 

“How was patrol?” Optimus asked as he fell into step with the wrecker.

“Uneventful. No ‘cons in sight.” Wheeljack huffed, arms over his chest. He followed Optimus to his office door, stopping just short of the entrance. “How’s the doc?”

Optimus smiled, “For once, alive and well.”

Wheeljack couldn’t help but grin in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little clarity on frame transfers, the stages are as follows, each dash being a transfer: Sparkling - Youngling - Mechling - Primary Adult Frame - Secondary Frame - Tertiary Frame, and so on. Ratchet will be transferred to his Tertiary Frame next, Optimus his Secondary Frame and Bumblebee is still in his Mechling frame, to provide a point of reference.


	15. Chapter 15

"My fellow Autobots, it is with great pride in each of you - your skills, bravery and determination throughout this long and difficult war, that I welcome our race back to Cybertron." Optimus Prime, finish waxed for the first time in vorns, stood tall before the arching gateway of the Autobots’ newly constructed Space Bridge. He glanced slowly about the group assembled before him, optics gleaming brighter than any of the Autobots had ever seen them. "Our band is small, our race nearly extinct, but with the great civil war finally at its end it is my hope that we will not remain this way for long. A beacon has already been sent, a message for any Cybertronian whom may intercept it." He paused, drawing in a deep breath, appearing almost too excited to finish his speech. The grin across the Prime's face was more genuine that it had ever been. He raised one hand into the air, hand balled into a tight, triumphant fist, and held the other over his spark. "Autobots! Cybertronians! At long last we return to Cybertron! We return to our home!"

The cheering that followed was deafening. It was a wonder how five Autobots and five humans could create such noise. Grins were plastered on every face, even Ratchet's as he watched Bumblebee bounce on his pedes. Unable to resist, the medic threw in a whoop of his own, throwing his hands into the air so quickly it nearly tipped his wheelchair back. Bulkhead caught him before he fell and flashed him an amused and absolutely giddy grin. Ratchet returned the look without hesitation.

They were going home.

For the first time in sixty centuries there was no enemy to fight, no war to be won. For the first time in hundreds of vorns the Cybertronian race was focused on rebuilding instead of destroying. For the first time in six thousand years there was peace. Ratchet couldn't remember a time his spark had felt so light. It wasn't until this moment, this victory over the Decepticons, that he realized how much the war had affected him. And he could see it in every one of his comrades. The ever present exhaustion he'd grown accustom to on their faces was gone. They stood proud and tall, and most importantly, more together than they had ever been.

"Do not be fooled, my comrades," Optimus began again once the noise had quieted. "The path before us is not an easy one. It is not as riddled with death and sorrow as before but there is still much work to do. Cybertron is all but ruins. Rebuilding will take us many vorns, even with the aid of returning Cybertronians and the remaining Decepticons. We will have our work cut out for us, and I will need each of you if we are to create a functioning, peaceful society. I believe in my very spark that we can make this work, free of the corruption that sparked this war, and free of the inequalities that it fed. Together, we can rebuild not only our home but our people as well."

Ever graceful, despite his lanky form, the Prime turned to face the space bridge controls at his side, and the small human boy manning them. "Rafael, if you would do us the honor." The child nodded, looking for all the world like the happiest child alive. A quick series of codes typed into his laptop and the space bridge spiraled open with a whoosh of displaced air. Optimus stood aside, beckoning his troops through. As each one passed he laid a hand on their backs, smiling and thanking them for their services to Cybertron. 

Ratchet was the last in the procession; his mobility much slower than the others. When Bulkhead disappeared though the bridged, however, Optimus stepped forward, blocking Ratchet's path. The medic smiled up at him. His Prime did not return the expression. Instead he knelt before the older mech, placing a hand on his knee. The touch did not register to Ratchet's severed neural network.

"I am sorry, old friend, but I must ask you to remain here." Ratchet stared at his leader, smile fading from his features. The air had gone still, even the hum of the space bridge silenced by his confusion.

"Here?" He repeated. "On Earth?"

Optimus nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so. There is much work to be done, Ratchet. You would be better suited to remain on earth, rather than assist with reconstruction."

Ratchet's jaw opened and closed as he scrambled for a reply. What work could possibly suit him on Earth? Rafael was more than capable of maintaining the outpost's systems, and any diplomatic necessity was negated by the ability to transverse the universe in a matter of moments thanks to bridging technology. "I... I don't understand."

Optimus sighed, hanging his helm for a moment. "The kind of work that Cybertron needs is not suited to your... condition, Ratchet."

"My c-condition?" Ratchet stuttered. "There is other work to be done. War or not, you'll need someone to maintain everyone's systems, set up a communications grid, repair damaged systems. Optimus, I am much more valuable with the others than here."

Optimus rose from his crouched position, towering over the seated medic. "Ratchet, you are to remain on Earth with the humans. That is an order."  
The medic's brow furrowed. "I have every right to return to Cybertron!" He gritted his denta, fighting to hide his dismay and devastation at his leader's words. "It is my home just as much as it is yours."

"And you will return," Optimus insisted, turning his back to the medic and facing the still open space bridge. His voice held a shocking amount of annoyance.   
"When we are done with construction we will call you back." 

Ratchet felt his fury rise at those words. "So I am to wait vorns until you are finished? Be reasonable Optimus, you need me there!" 

Optimus spun about, fists clenched and a rage upon his face that Ratchet had never before seen, not even when the Prime was locked in combat with Megatron. "You will remain on Earth, and you will not question my orders again! You are a burden to this team: a burden the survival of our race and of the peace we have won cannot afford!" 

Startled, Ratchet jolted back. His chair slipped out from under him, sending the medic into a tangled heap on the cold concrete. Optimus made no move to help him, instead leaning over the fallen mech. His denta seemed to sharpen as he spoke, narrowing into points. "You have been nothing but a burden for too long now. I will not stand for it any longer." His optics narrowed, darkening. "Be honored we searched so strongly for a cure, Ratchet. There are times I believe I should   
have let the disease claim you."

With that the Prime rose and turned. His frame, now a sickly dull purple instead of the regal red he'd always been, vanished into the space bridge. The portal closed with a thunderous clap and a blinding flash of light.

\--

The nightmare induced, strut freezing jolt from recharge was never pleasant, no matter how many times he experienced it. For a hazy moment, Ratchet wondered if there was a thunderstorm. The rumbling crash of electricity upon Earth's surface had woken him far too many times with nightmares of bombs and air raids. 

A second boom had the medic flinching where he lay. Wonderful. A thunderstorm meant the whole base would be on edge. Even if they managed to fight past memories of bomb scared battle fields the sound of rain brought the fleeting sensation of stinging plating under acid droplets. 

With a huff, Ratchet tugged himself into a sitting position using the bar Bulkhead had installed for him over his berth. Getting out of berth was still a struggle but no-where near as much as it had been previously, as he was now able to use his remaining upper-body strength. Once he gained his equilibrium the next challenge was to stay upright while maneuvering his legs off the side of the berth. There was almost no armor on his legs that could be removed without risking damage to the central structures - not that it mattered much, Ratchet thought bitterly. As such, his legs were heavy and difficult to manipulate. Add paralysis of the majority of his abdomen and Ratchet found himself slumping to the side during the process more often than not. The task of simply getting up in the morning was frustrating, exhausting and typically took the upwards of half an hour to get from laying down on the berth to sitting in his chair. 

Finally sitting at the edge of his berth, Ratchet reached for his chair, and found air. Startled, the medic nearly toppled off the berth. He grasped the support bar Bulkhead had drilled into the wall next to the berth and glanced about the room. He found no wheelchair. With a frown, the medic reached up and activated his comm. link. 

:Optimus?: His voice creaked with disuse. :Could you please come and get me?:

The connection crackled with static for a moment before the Prime responded. :I am on my way. Are you alright?:

:I can’t seem to find my wheelchair,: Ratchet grumbled, unsure of whether to be annoyed or amused by that fact. 

There was a long pause. :It is not in your quarters?: A moment after the comm. cut off the berth room door slid open. Optimus stepped inside quickly, allowing the door to close behind him.

The medic gestured broadly about the room. “Do you see it anywhere?”

Optimus simply smiled and gently lifted Ratchet into his arms. “It can’t have gone far.” The older mech shook his helm, wrapping his arms about the Prime’s broad shoulders. On the way through the base’s back corridors, Ratchet glanced about. Only Bumblebee’s door was closed, as the mech had taken the graveyard shift the night before.

Everyone’s up already?” He had to crane his neck to see Optimus’ face.

“It appears so,” He responded, turning the corner. “I’ll admit I’m unsure. I have been in my office most of the morning.”

Ratchet hummed, understanding. “You’ve refueled, right?”

Optimus’ chassis vibrated against Ratchet as he hummed. “I had a cube when I got up.” The medibay door slid open silently for the mechs as they approached. Inside, to their surprise, sat Bulkhead, hunched over Ratchet’s work bench. Miko sat on his shoulder, watching him work, while Jack did the same off to the side of the desk. Rafael, in contrast, had his laptop pulled into his lap, a blueprint on the screen as he gave Bulkhead instructions. Ratchet used Optimus’ shoulder to pull himself up high enough to peer around the large green mech’s shoulder. He was unsure whether to smile or protest when he caught sight of the handle of his wheelchair.

“I don’t even want to know how you got that out of my room,” Ratchet scoffed, causing Bulkhead to jump. Miko squeaked, nearly falling from the mech’s shoulder.

“R-Ratchet,” Bulkhead stuttered, attempting to hide the chair behind his mass. “When did you get up?”

Ratchet rolled his optics, releasing his Prime’s shoulders as he was set down on a crate near the work bench. Optimus helped him settle his back against the wall. Once he was sure the medic was properly seated he moved off to the dispenser to get Ratchet’s morning rations.

“You do understand that I can’t even get out of berth without that chair, right?” He accepted his ration from Optimus with a grimace. Even held in his lap the mixture wafted an unpleasant, bitter fragrance. 

Bulkhead waited until Ratchet had finished choking back his energon to speak. “I wanted to have this finished by the time you got up.”

Ratchet hummed, making a wry face at his now empty cube. “What are you doing, anyway?” Rafael glanced up from his laptop, grinning.

“We’re adding a motor to your chair,” He explained. “If I’ve got the coding right, it should respond to signals from your comm. link.”

The medic scratched at his chin. “That-That’s actually quite ingenious. Was it your idea?”

The small boy shook his head, his over gelled hair swaying with the movement. “Amazingly, it was Miko’s.” 

The Japanese girl squawked in protest from her perch on Bulkhead’s shoulder. “Hey! I have good ideas all the time!”

Jack scoffed, glancing up from the screw he was tightening to give Miko a stale look. With a shake of his head he turned to Rafael. “All secure, if you’re ready to fire it up.”

“One moment,” the boy used his palm to shove his oversized glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’ll send you the comm. frequency, Ratchet.” A message alert appeared on Ratchet’s HUD. He integrated the comm. code easily, Rafatel’s coding as flawless as ever. The data packet included base commands the wheelchair was programmed to respond to. Bulkhead set the chair on the ground when motioned.

Ratchet sent a ping over the channel containing instructions for speed and direction. The chair’s motor propelled it a foot forward at the request. Another ping had it turning and whirling towards where the medic sat. Dropping the speed to its lowest setting, he maneuvered the wheelchair until it was next to him. Chair to wheelchair transfers were much easier than their berth dependant counterparts and Ratchet managed the change with ease. The children and Bulkhead watched with barely contained excitement as Ratchet rolled expertly about the medibay.

“Any issues?” Rafael asked after a moment.

Ratchet hummed, rolling back and forth, considering. “There’s a slight lag; only a couple of milliseconds.”

Rafael rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Not sure that can be fixed. I’ll work on it.”

Ratchet nodded. “Thank you, all of you. This was very thoughtful.” Each grinned back at the medic, pleased beyond reason. A genuine ‘thank you’ from Ratchet was rare. “But next time, ask. There was no need to sneak into my quarters.” The smiles turned to guilty expressions, or amused in Miko’s case. Ratchet shook his helm, shoving Bulkhead away from his work bench. The wrecker moved aside the stool he had been using. 

“What’s all this anyway?” He asked, gesturing to the datapads stacked neatly to the side. He reached over and turned one on. A grayscale image flickered to life on the screen. Ratchet picked up the pad, scrolling through the data.

“My processor,” Ratchet answered. “It’s the scan June took just after my Grand Mal. I’m attempting to establish what connections remain and what’s corrupted.”

Bulkhead rubbed at his chin. “And everything’s there?”

“Mmm- not all of it,” Ratchet hummed, “Most. And what’s important is. I haven’t finished the analysis yet, but what’s amazing is how ell reconstructed the connections are.” A faraway look came over his optics as he examined the data.

Bulkhead, instead, appeared concerned and fairly nervous. “What isn’t-“ Before he could finish, the base alarms sounded throughout the medibay. Both Autobots jumped at the sound. It had grown increasingly rare as time went on. Ratchet followed Bulkhead out of the medibay after motioning for the children to stay put. 

Optimus and Arcee were already in the main room, examining the monitors.

“Decepticons?” Ratchet asked, coming to sit next to Optimus.

“In the mine we deemed abandoned three months ago.” The Prime’s brow was furrowed, his mouth drawn tight. Once an energon mine was abandoned it was almost never returned to. That there were seven Decepticon signatures in the area was troubling. “Ratchet, do you feel you need someone to stay here with you?”

The medic shook his helm. “I have the children if I’m no longer able to man the ground bridge, and Bumblebee is still recharging.” Where the question would have been irritating and unwelcome months ago Ratchet now accepted that he was still in need of assistance at times. He was still weak and easily exhausted, and while he had not suffered any illness since his Grand Mal, three days was hardly enough time to guarantee another seizure would not occur. While the children could do little if Ratchet seized they could call for help or take over for the medic if he felt ill. And though he was not fond of being woken early, Bumblebee would understand if he were disturbed from recharge.

Optimus’ field washed over Ratchet, full of acknowledgement and trust of his CMO’s decision. Turning to face the ground bridge, the Prime addressed his assembled troops. Wheeljack had joined them only moments after Bulkhead and Ratchet had arrived. “This mission is recon first and foremost. Arcee, you’re up front with me. Bulkhead, Wheeljack, you should remain back until called. We will bridge in a distance away to retain cover. Ratchet?”

The medic rolled forward, taking his place in front of the base’s main computer terminal. With a nod he activated the ground bridge. Optimus stepped through first. His optics constricted almost painfully against the midday sun. He reached up to shield his optics as he waited for the remainder of the Autobots to exit the Ground Bridge. Arcee followed loyally at his side once the other had hidden themselves as best they could. It was a simple task, even for a bot as large as Optimus, to peer over the edge of the Rocky Mountain Cliffside without being spotted from the valley below. Two eradicons milled about in the clearing, keeping watch over the mine entrance. Even from a distance the Autobots could see that one’s ankle strut was bent out of alignment, giving him a noticeable limp. The other was much larger than most eradicons, indicating that he was a squad leader. His finish supported several scratches and scuffs but he appeared in decent health.

A third eradicon emerged from the mine, jogging over to the largest of them.

“Anything?” The leader asked, strong voice carrying easily through the valley.

“Not even a scrap.” The smaller eradicon answered.

“Slag,” The mech rubbed nervously at the back of his helm. “Did Crossback give an estimation?”

The eradicon gave a sad shake of his helm. “Four terrain days, between the seven of us.” There was a moment of heavy silence.

“We’ll have to move on then. Mucktill thinks there might be a half stripped mine twenty kliks south of here. How’s Flicker doing?” The conversation faded from audio range as the two meandered back into the cave mouth.

Optimus waved Arcee back to where the two wreckers remained hidden. The Autobots huddled together at the mouth of a second, smaller cave. This formation was a natural one, unlike the energon mine in the valley blow. “Well, that was strange.” Arcee crouched down, examining the soil beneath her pedes. “They don’t seem to be scouting. More like scavenging.”

Optimus hummed in agreement. “The situation does appear peculiar. We need to approach this situation with caution.”

“Thinkin’ we should go investigate a little more forcefully,” Wheeljack pulled a blade free from its sheath on his back. The Prime reached out and placed a hand on the sword, gently forcing it to the ground. Wheeljack did not protest the action.

“I do not believe this situation calls for force. We may benefit from observing for a while.” Optimus was forced to crouch alongside Bulkhead to fit in the cave. 

“So we set a watch. Follow them from cave to cave.” Arcee hummed contemplatively. “I can take first watch. Bee can take over once he’s online and up to speed.” 

Optimus nodded, placing a massive hand on Arcee’s shoulder. “Until we have more information, make no attempt at contact. And maintain a safe distance with your comm. active. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.” Arcee nodded as she stood, sliding around Optimus and Bulkhead. Her light frame danced from rock to rock, silently, until she vanished into the thick Rocky Mountain vegetation.

After a moment of silence to insure they did not inadvertently expose Arcee to the eradicon group, Optimus reached up and tapped his finial to activate his comm.. The line stuttered to life. :Fowler here, Prime. In need of a bridge?: 

“Indeed, Agent Fowler,” Optimus responded. “You have our coordinates?”

:Ratch programmed ‘em in for me.: The Agent reassured. The swirling vortex crackled into life several yards from the cave entrance. Optimus shepherded Bulkhead and Wheeljack towards the ground bridge before following.

“Is Ratchet alright?” The Prime stepped through the bridge, reentering the safety and warmth of the Autobot base. The transition from climate to climate always came with a moment of shock and discomfort until the frame readjusted to its environment. Optimus’ fans stuttered on at the Nevada heat.

Fowler pushed his chair away from the computer to face the Autobot leader. “Ratchet’s fine, Prime. Rafael is helping him with his wheelchair. You, however, I need to speak to you.” Optimus nodded, motioning for the human to follow him back to his office.

“Bulkhead,” He called over his shoulder, “Please monitor the comms and inform Bumblebee of the situation when he comes online.” The green mech smiled and gave him a thumbs-up before turning to his duties.

The red mech followed Fowler into his office. The room dwarfed the human but was fairly small to the much larger Cybertronian. Optimus boosted the government agent up to the surface of his desk before settling into the adjacent chair. “What can I do for you, Agent Fowler.”

The human paced the length of the desk, expertly avoiding any precarious looking datapad piles. “Ratchet said you were out investigating a group of ‘cons?”

Optimus nodded. “That is correct. We discovered a small group of eradicons who appeared to be scavenging in an abandoned mine.”

“Well turns out, they aren’t the only ones.” Fowler accessed the human sized computer on the Prime’s desk, the screen projecting onto the far wall. “We’ve got a few security cameras around most of the abandoned energon mines in North America. These photos are from one in Northern Iceland.” The screen changed to display a series of grainy, low resolution photographs. The first image, though grayscale and taken at a distance was clearly of an eradicon. The second photo showed several more emerging from the mine entrance. “We have hundreds of photos like these.” Agent Fowler elaborated. “They’ve been milling about for a little more than a week. My superiors only recently found it important enough to inform me.”

Optimus rested his chin in his hands, watching attentively as Fowler flipped through the photographs. There were at least ten different eradicons present in the area, possibly more. “Would there be a way to remotely link the cameras’ feeds to our base’s systems?”

Fowler hummed, thinking. “I can talk to the techies, see what they can hook up. But that isn’t all, Prime.” With another click he pulled up a new photograph. A group of twelve figures huddled in the dirt at the mine’s entrance around a pitifully small batch of newly distilled energon. One figure, a gleaming silver despite the dirt on his frame, stood out amongst the rest. “You seein’ what I’m seein’?”

Optimus’ optics narrowed. “Starscream,” He muttered. “Has there been any sign of any of the other Decepticon officers?”

Fowler shook his head. “Just Screamer. But he’s managed to avoid our cameras better than any of his companions, though I doubt he knows they’re there. It’s not impossible that there are others.” He shut off the projector. “There’s not much we can do right now though. The Icelandic government isn’t too happy with all our activity in the area at the moment. We’re trying to get occupation rights sorted out but it could take a few more weeks.”

Optimus nodded in understanding. “As long as we have access to observing Starscream, there is very little need for immediate action. We do not wish to cause conflict among your species.” The Prime scooped up a half empty cube of energon from the far side of his desk. He took a long draught before turning his attention back to Fowler. “Could you download these images to our database?”

The government agent nodded, quickly making the necessary transfers through the small computer on Optimus’ desk. “I’ll update you the moment anything changes, either with the Icelandics or with the ‘cons. I expect you to do the same, Prime.” He gave the mech a stern look, despite him being five times Fowler’s height.

Optimus provided him a slight smile. “I assure you, Agent Fowler, we will keep you up to date.”

\--

“Turns out a lot of the electrical flow was blocked, stuck in the damaged areas of my processor.” Ratchet waved his hands about as he spoke. He lay draped on the Autobot’s makeshift couch, his feet sitting in Optimus’ lap while his back was supported by several pillows and the couches arm. Optimus nodded and smiled as he spoke, the report he’d been writing forgotten off to the side. “The seizure was the result of a connection in those dead areas reestablishing. The seizure likely would have continued until something had blown had you not sedated me.”

Optimus hummed, relaxing a hand over Ratchet’s ankle. “The electrical overload allowed the connection to restore?”

Ratchet chuckled lightly. “No. The reverse actually; it’s similar to a true processor glitch when too many connections fire in tandem.” The medic took a quick sip from the cube at his side. The mid-grade energon was a treat and an appreciated break from his normal medication saturated midgrade.

“Can it occur again?” The prime accepted the rust stick Ratchet handed him.

The medic sighed. “It’s extremely likely that I’ll have minor seizures throughout the remainder of my functioning. Hopefully nothing on that scale again.”

The prime frowned around his rust stick. “It’s been almost a week without any indication of a seizure.” 

Ratchet hummed. “The further apart they are the better. Damn things hurt.” Optimus spared his companion a sad smile, which the medic quickly waved aside. “How’s the report coming along?”

Optimus grimaced, glancing sideways at the discarded datapad. “Agent Fowler has requested a draft of the updated protocols concerning any future incoming Autobots, seeing as Wheeljack’s arrival was less than ideal.” The prime rubbed at his faceplates. “We were hoping to have the initial draft completed in time for the meeting with General Hallen in the morning. That does not seem likely at this point, however.”

The medic scoffed, “Not with me shorting your audios.”

“I enjoy listening to you,” Optimus assured, smile bright. He patted the medic’s leg even though he knew the mech could not feel the gesture. 

“How about this,” Ratchet suggested, snatching one of Optimus’ history textbooks off of a side table. “You work while I’m the lazy one for once.” He flipped to a random page in the book, wiggling into the couch until he was decently comfortable.

“I don’t mind speaking to you. The report is not all that critical.” Optimus made no move to retrieve his abandoned report, instead staring expectantly at Ratchet. The medic did not respond, merely dabbing his forefinger on his glossa before turning the page of the book.

“Would you prefer if I retrieved one of your medical texts for you?” Optimus attempted.

Ratchet turned the small paper book in his hand. “Why couldn’t June have provided these in digital format? Books are much too fragile.” The prime sighed in defeat, relenting. He snatched up his datapad and resigned himself to several hours of processor numbing administrative work. Ratchet chuckled lightly but made no comment.

The two delved into an easy silence. Periodically the peace was interrupted by Optimus humming at his report or Ratchet grumbling at the size of his book. On one occasion the Prime had to set his work aside to help Ratchet flip a page, as the medic’s hands still shook from time to time. The only true interruption came when Optimus felt a jab at his abdomen, just below his tanks. He glanced up from his report to the medic at his side, frowning. After a moment of watching Ratchet read silently he shook his helm and returned to his work.

Optimus brow scrunched together when Ratchet poked his abdomen again, fighting against the urge to bat the medic away. Instead he ignored the childish jab, returning to his work. The protocols he'd come up with were still rough and would need much more work before they could be implemented, but they already did more good for both Autobots and humans than the current regulations. Optimus scratched absently at his audio, running back over an oddly worded sentence. The way it was, there was too much room for misinterpretation, something that did not bode well in governments, no matter their species. Perhaps if he just added a second clause it would -. 

Optimus placed his datapad off to the side with a huff. "I was under the impression that you wished for me to get work done."  
Ratchet glanced up innocently from his book, giving his leader a questioning look. "And are you?" He asked, after a barely noticeable hesitation.  
Optimus glared at his companion. "Very little with you doing that."  
Ratchet raised a brow. "If my venting is too loud for you, you’re welcome to work elsewhere. I was under the impression that you enjoyed my company."

Optimus rolled his optics but chose to return to his work without gratifying the medic with a reply. He got half a paragraph into reviewing the documentation when the jab came again.

"Ratchet," he snapped, exasperated. The medic jumped.

"What, Prime," he barked back, tone a perfect match to Optimus'. 

"Please stop. I have asked you once already." The prime suddenly had the vague feeling he was a young archivist again, arguing pointlessly with the much older medical professor. 

"I'm not doing anything," Ratchet retorted, expression a mixture of confusion and annoyance. 

"You have been poking me for the last ten minutes," Optimus clarified. "I would appreciate it if you stopped."  
Ratchet's brow furrowed. "I'm nowhere near you," he pointed out. "It’s not like I could sit up to reach you."

Optimus opened his mouth to retort when the sensation came again. He froze, glancing down at his lap. Ratchets pedes rested across his legs just as he'd dragged them there when they'd first settled on the couch. The limp pedes were the only part of the medic that was anywhere near Optimus, but they were not a possibility. Ratchet was fully paraplegic. None of the connections below his upper abdomen received or sent signals to his processor any longer. It simply wasn't possible for the medic to move his foot. 

Just as Optimus was prepared to dismiss the event and attribute it to stress and a lack of recharge, Ratchet’s right pede twitched, tapping against his stomach.  
“Ratchet…,” the prime breathed, unable to form words beyond the medic’s name. A quick glance to his side revealed that the medic had pushed himself up on his elbows to stare down his form at the limp feet. His optics were wide and bright. He made no indication that he’d heard the prime. It took another minute twitch to pull him from his stupor. 

The bulky white mech twisted his helm to glanced behind him, frantically sending commands at his wheelchair via comm.. When the chair snagged on a box of yet to be sorted supplies next to the couch, Optimus leapt up to assist. Ratchet did not protest when he was carried over to his chair though he did appear rather impatient with the speed at which Optimus was putting him down. Once properly able to move on his own again, the medic sped off in the direction of the medibay. His chair whirred warningly as he pushed the motor to its highest speed. Optimus followed at a light jog.

“Grab the portable scanner,” Ratchet instructed, already fishing a blank datapad from the cabinet. Optimus snatched up the requested device from the medic’s work bench and returned to his companion’s side. Ratchet plugged the scanner into the datapad and adjusted several settings before handing it back. “Seventh strut, about one of your hands down from the base of my neck.” Optimus nodded, pointing the scanner at the instructed area, looking over Ratchet’s shoulder at the datapad in his lap. The medic was leaned forward, supported by his arms, exposing his back plates to his leader.

A thin metal mesh covered Ratchet’s back strut where the break was. Normally, his medipack would cover the delicate and vital structure. With that removed Ratchet weighed a great deal less and could lie on his back much easier but his backstrut was particularly vulnerable. The mesh kept the wiring safe from contact and contamination. It also hid away the mangled and somewhat gruesome struts below.

“Hold still, Optimus,” Ratchet chided. “I can’t get a good reading unless the scanner is steady.” The Prime muttered an apology, gripping the scanner more firmly. After a moment Ratchet began tapping at the datapad screen, saving the results. “Okay, that should be enough.”

Optimus shut off the scanner and pulled up a stool next to Ratchet. The medic hummed curiously as he scanned through the information. Prime was politely silent while he worked, despite the many questions he wished to ask.

Ratchet froze. “There’s a connection.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s faint, but it’s there.” Optimus remained silent for a moment but Ratchet did not continue.

“What does that mean?” He asked, leaning over further to get a better look at the datapad.

Ratchet sat perfectly still, vents calm and even, yet his frame was tense. Slowly, almost gingerly, he relaxed back into his chair. "It means I might walk again."

Optimus resisted the urge to grin, settling for a small, unsure smile instead. "Might?"

Ratchet nodded, finally looking away from the datapad. "It's going to take considerable amounts of physical therapy. Much more than you needed after the matrix altered your frame. It could take anywhere from a year to a vorn before I can stand on my own, much less walk." He sighed, "The connection is very faint."

"But it is there," Optimus countered, placing a hand on his friend's protoform bare shoulder. Ratchet smiled back, hopeful. 

"We need to brace the strut," he said suddenly, pulling away from Optimus to glide across the room. After a moment of rummaging about in the cabinet he pulled forth a sturdy but heavy brace, similar to the one Optimus had helped him put on his arm after their battle with Megatron’s tericon army. "The connection is far too fragile at this point," he explained, handing the brace to Optimus. "This will keep me from moving that section of my spinal struts and accidentally fraying or snapping the wires there. I trust you know how to put it on?"

Optimus smile, slipping the brace around Ratchet's chassis. "I trust you'll correct me if I don’t." Ratchet chuckled, lifting his arms for the Prime, dropping them again once the temporary clamps in the back were secured. Optimus grabbed the portable welder Ratchet kept incase his built-in one was inaccessible or damaged.   
The heat would fully secure the brace to Ratchet’s frame, tightening the specialized alloys until they were snug around his torso. It would also bond the brace to itself. Another burst of heat at a later time could loosen the brace enough to be removed.  
Once the support was well secured, Optimus patted Ratchet on the shoulder and put the welder away. The medic was still engrossed in the medical datapad when the Prime returned. He was muttering to himself and jabbing at the screen. Optimus retook the seat across from his companion and waited.

"I'll write up a better treatment plan once I have some more data, but for now this should do." Ratchet handed the datapad to Optimus who glanced over the information there. With the general gist of it understood he gave the pad back.

"How much time a day do you plan on giving to this?" He asked, smile still visible.

"Only as much as I can," Ratchet replied with a sigh. "This isn't a rehabilitation center. Duty comes first."

Optimus shook his helm. "I have no doubt about that," he reassured. "I'm simply worried that you will stretch yourself too far too quickly."

"I am a medic," Ratchet scoffed, feigning offense. "I know perfectly well that over doing it can do more harm than good." A clatter of platting and several too loud voices drifting into the medibay indicated the children and their guardians had arrived back at base for the evening. 

Optimus gestured towards the door. "Care to share the good news?" Ratchet's chair whirred to life as he headed for the door, Optimus following closely behind. The children were the first to greet them. Miko pulled herself up to sit on the footrest of Ratchets wheelchair while Rafael scaled the side to sit on Ratchets shoulder. Jack simply walked beside them.

"What's with t the fancy new corset, Doc?" Miko called up, neck craned back to look at the medic. 

Ratchet had to look up the term on a remote access to the internet before he gestured for the children to join him. "Come up here and I'll show you." Optimus graciously hoisted the remaining two children up and into Ratchets lap. The medic activated his datapad and held it out for them to see. "What do you make of this?"

"Looks like some sort of freaky x-ray of my host parent's toaster," Miko said, scratching at her chin. Jack simply shrugged at the remark.

Rafael, however, stared with wide eyes from behind his glasses. "Ratchet, is that-?"

"Hush, you." The medic cut the boy off with a sharp click of his glossa. Rafael grinned, but didn't continue. 

"Wait," Jack mumbled, "is it an x-ray?" Both he and Miko looked up at Ratchet curiously. Rafael refused to look at either of them, still grinning far too broadly for his small face.

"It uses electro-magnetic pluses instead of x-rays, but essentially yes," Ratchet replied, flipping the display to a more zoomed in view.

Jack was silent for a long moment, studying the scans. "Ratchet," his tone raised in disbelief, "is that your back?"

The medic didn't reply to his question, instead turning back to the youngest of the children. "Rafael, what do you see?"

The boy leapt down from Ratchet’s shoulder, using his forearm as support. "It’s a scan of your back-struts. And this," he was nearly bouncing with excitement as he pointed out the mentioned area, "is a signal connection." Miko gave him a blank look but it seemed to click for Jack. 

"Wait, wait," he held up both hands, "so your back is what? Healing?" Ratchet smirked, nodding. Jack's eyes widened. "You might walk again?" Another nod.

Miko whooped, leaping up and pumping her fist into the air. "You can use the cane we made!"

Ratchet smiled at her enthusiasm. "One day, maybe. There's no guarantee I'll ever be able to walk again, and it’s unlikely to be anytime within the next year or two."

"That long?" Rafael stared up at his mentor, grin only slightly less. 

"Repair takes time, especially when left to self repair." Ratchet explained. "But we're going to be doing everything we can to help it along." He noticed with a touch of amusement that Miko kept glancing over her shoulder back at the hall to the Autobots’ quarters. "Oh, go tell Bulkhead already, before you explode." Ratchet feigned exasperation. Miko grinned, but scrambled down the wheelchair as fast as she could. Jack followed her after glancing up at Ratchet. The medic waved him off. 

Rafael stayed, however, grinning up at the mech. "Wanna come tell Bee with me?" 

Ratchet revved his wheelchair. "Care to see how fast this motor can go?" Rafael made a show of planting himself in Ratchet's lap. He made sure none of the plating on the medic could pinch him before giving a thumbs-up. Ratchet sent the command to the receiver in his chair. Rafael whooped with every increment of acceleration. Ratchet couldn't help but cheer right along with him as they sped down the base hallways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not realize I had not updated for so long. Extra long chapter today.
> 
> Please note that I began this story long before General Brice came into Transformers Prime. For continuity’s sake I’ve stuck with General Hallen instead of switching over to Fowler’s canon superior.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning!  
> This chapter contains mentions of Rape, and mentions of Suicide!
> 
> And most likely highly inaccurate depictions of electrical systems. I only know enough about electricity to not fry myself making toast.

Cursing could be heard through out the Autobot base. Dialects from all the different sectors of Cybertron blended into English, French, Spanish and every other language the Autobots had downloaded during their exodus. Bulkhead chuckled as a new round of swearing began, earning himself a glare from over Ratchet's shoulder. The wrecker lightly supported the medic from behind as he attempted to will his body into a sitting position.

Not even half of the way through the sit-up, Ratchet slumped back into Bulkhead's hold. His rapid ventilation conveyed his exhaustion. Bulkhead waited for him to cool down some before nudging his shoulder. “Five.”

Ratchet groaned, “Now I understand why my PT patients loathed me so much.” Which a deep intake he forced himself back into the exercise.

Bulkhead hummed in good nature. “Then you're going to hate me. Fifteen more to go.”

Ratchet shook his helm. “My fault,” he grunted through gritted teeth. “I set the number.” He made it closer to vertical than he had the last attempt, just as was true with each prior effort. Five more attempts and he'd triumphantly made it into a sitting position with Bulkhead gently guiding him up.

“Okay,” he breathed, “I know I said twenty but that's enough for now.” Bulkhead eased Ratchet back to the berth and rounded to his front. The medic had spent all of the previous day's morning showing the wrecker how to assist him in stretching and he believed he had a fairly good grasp on what to do but he still hesitated. With Ratchet's reassuring smile he hefted up the medic's right pede and gently pushed it back towards his chest until he met resistance. The tension cables in Ratchet's legs were stiff from disuse and not nearly as flexible as they should have been.

“You did pretty good today,” Bulkhead attempted in an effort to fill the silence.

“Decently,” Ratchet grunted as the cables in his thigh stretched to and slightly beyond their limit. “I'd like to be progressing faster.”

Bulkhead moved to Ratchet's other leg, repeating the exercise. “Don't blame you. Don't know what I'd do if I was injured badly. Probably be pretty mad.”

“Mmm,” Ratchet hummed. “Yes, yes. Probably.” He watched with dulled optics as the other worked his pede joints. Bulkhead paused, gently placing Ratchet's foot back on the berth.

“You okay there, Ratch?” He asked, tilting his helm in worry. “Not going to seize on me are you?”

“Hm?” Ratchet jolted his gaze up, optics refocusing. “No, no. I'm fine. Just thinking.” He held a hand up, silently asking for help sitting up. “You don't have patrol until tonight, do you?” Bulkhead steadied Ratchet as he used his upper body to lift his legs over the edge of the berth. With minimal help he managed to transfer to his chair. Normally the medic could preform chair transfers on his own but he was exhausted and sore from the morning's physical therapy.

“No patrol until five. Arcee's out next shift.” He followed Ratchet over to his work station, taking up a stool there.

Ratchet pulled out a datapad and a scanner from the storage under his desk, handing the scanner to Bulkhead. “Hold this, don't press anything.” Bulkhead watched adamantly as the medic connected the two devices with an assortment of colorful cables. The scanner sung a series of beeps as it started up.

“A sub-cortical scan?” Bulkhead asked as Ratchet input settings into the scanner the wrecker was holding.

The medic glanced up, giving him a surprised look. “Close. Sub-protoform, yes. Sub-cortical, no. We'll be scanning my backstrut but it still looks for the same action-potential firing pattern.”

Bulkhead nodded, understanding only some of the explanation. “The settings look similar to the one's in your book,” he explained.

“My book?” Ratchet didn't pause his work. “My thesis paper on Chronic Circuit Glitch? You read it?”

“I wouldn't call it reading.” The wrecker shrugged. “Just skimmed through it really. I didn't know a lot of the words and we don't have much of a dictionary anymore but the pictures helped a lot.”

Ratchet paused, glancing up at Bulkhead. “And you understand what a sub-cortical scan looks at?”

Bulkhead's optics scrunched up and his brow drew in tight. “It looks at the, um, the electricity in the processor.” Ratchet nodded minutely.

“In a general sense, yes.” He returned to poking at his datapad with a frown. “How would you feel about learning a little more in terms of anatomy. I could use someone with more than basic first-aid training.”

Bulkhead handed the scanner back when the medic gestured for it. “You want to teach me to be a medic? I don't think that's such a good idea, Ratch.”

The white mech chuckled lightly, tapping in a few final settings and handing the scanner back to Bulkhead. “Scan just below the ports for my subspace. Just above the break.” The wrecker moved to do as asked while Ratchet leaned forward in his chair. He knew from the basic first aid training Ratchet had made everyone take when the Ark first launched not to move the scanner until the scan completed. A small beep signified that it had. Ratchet took the scanner back from him and set it aside while it compiled the data.

“I don't intend for you to get your medical certification, only learn up to the level of a field assistant.” Ratchet explained. “Basic Cybertonian anatomy, field medicine, some pharmacology. Nothing beyond an entry academy level.”

Bulkhead's gaze dropped down to his hands resting in his lap. “I never had a chance at even applying to the academy.”

Ratchet smiled softly, turning back to the now finished scan. “It's not the academy but it's something.” He trailed off, intensly studying the datapad in his hands. Bulkhead glanced over his shoulder.

“There's no change,” Ratchet whispered after a long moment of silence.

“I thought you said-” Ratchet raised a hand, cutting the other off.

“The connection is minimal. My self-repair should have done more by now.” Ratchet put the datapad down gently, staring unfocused at the far wall. Bulkhead placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, watching the medic carefully. Stress had been a trigger for seizures in the past. Eventually, however, Ratchet simply shook his helm and shoved the scanner back into the wrecker's hands. “Run a scan on my self-repair hub.” When Bulkhead hesitated Ratchet scowled. “Under the left audio receptor and slightly towards the back.” Once the scan was finished Ratchet placed it aside to finish calculating the data.

The medic sighed, turning reluctantly away from the desk. “Rafael only informed me yesterday that some of the wiring in the ground-bridge is frayed. I'll need some panels moved.” Bulkhead followed in silence, wanting desperately to ask after the medic's well being but he knew better.

By the time the pair reached the main ground-bridge controls, Ratchet had mellowed some. His frame had relaxed greatly and the frown had vanished from his face. Optimus stood at the main computer controls, monitoring base activity while filing what reports he could from outside his office.

“Did therapy go well?” The Prime asked as Ratchet came to sit by his side.

“Same as yesterday,” Ratchet answered flatly. “and the day before.”

Optimus' brow scrunched under the edge of his helm. “Is something wrong?”

Ratchet sighed deeply, expression dropping again. Optimus found a place to sit on one of the large storage crates next to Ratchet's wheelchair.

“Bulkhead,” Ratchet addressed the wrecker, “would you mind removing the panels for the ground-bridge. I'll join you in a moment.” The other mech simply nodded, unsure what to say. Prime placed a hand on Ratchet's shoulder, gentle and light, and waited for his companion to speak.

“It's really nothing yet, Optimus.” Ratchet began reluctantly, “I'm rendering some scans. I'll know more once they are done.”

Optimus vented deeply, frame tighter than he intended. “You are not relapsing, are you?”

“No, no,” The medic quickly assured. “My processor is healing nicely. Everything else...” He trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nasal plating, searching for the correct words. “Much more slowly than I had hoped.”

The Prime nodded slowly, understanding and sympathizing. “But you are healing, even if slowly?”

“I don't know.” Ratchet shook his helm. “I don't know. The scans should tell me, but it's possible my self-repair has stopped working on my back for whatever reason.”

“If you need to speak to someone, I am always available.” Optimus squeezed Ratchet's shoulder, careful of the exposed protoform. The medic reached a hand up to cover his Prime's.  
The comfortable silence was broken in part by Bulkhead dropping a heavy panel cover and his following mumbled apology. The rumbling opening of the base elevator door was mostly drown out. The human shout that followed was not.

“Prime!” Fowler called in his usual manner, the moment the elevator doors opened enough to allow him to do so. Optimus glanced up from his seat next to his medic. At the serious look to the Agent's face he stood and strode over to the catwalk, giving Ratchet a parting glance that promised further discussion at a later time.

“What can I do for you, Agent Fowler?” He held out a hand for the human when Fowler began climbing over the railing. He stepped into the Prime's hand with no hint of worry that he would fall.

“Situation's changed, Prime,” Fowler began. “Need to speak with you. In your office, preferably.” Optimus nodded, both to the human in his hand and to Bulkhead and Ratchet, who had gone back to fiddling with the ground bridge.

Optimus set Fowler down on the usual place on his desk before settling himself. The clutter in office had lessened somewhat as the Prime had time to clean. With ratchet caring for himself again, all of their schedules had opened up a great deal. The children had especially enjoyed the amount of time they'd had with their guardians lately.

Fowler settled in his chair on the Prime's desk. He crossed his arms over his broad chest with a sigh. “Starscream's moved, we've lost sight of him.”

Optimus hummed. They'd expected the group to move eventually. The hope was that they would remain stationary until a motive for their reason was uncovered. “Is it known where they moved to? Or if they've detected our surveillance?”

“We don't think they did. We've got troops combing the sight as we speak. So far it just looks like they scraped what they could out of the mines and ran.” Fowler explained. “You've been analyzing the photos I gave you?”

“I have.” Optimus tapped a few keys on his computer, pulling up one of the images displaying Starscream. Next to him sat one of the smaller eradicons. They appeared to be conversing, Starscream leaning subtly against the other. That by itself was unusual. Optimus stood, rounding the desk so he stood next to the projected image. “It's difficult to make out due to Starscream's natural coloration,” The Prime began, gesturing to the tips of the silver Decepticon's wings. “But it appears that he is graying slightly.”

Fowler rubbed at his chin, squinting. The difference in color was subtle, the polish slightly darker and the sheen dulled to a matte finish. The graying was no-where near as prominent as it had been on Ratchet. When the medic began to gray the discoloration began on the tips of his chevron and his pedes. The visual signs of disease had spread in a blotchy, creeping pattern across his chassis and limbs. Paint flaked in its wake, nanites falling off his form as they ceased to function, revealing the lackluster gray protometal beneath. Starscream retained none of the paint on his wing tips, indicating that the nanite death was slow moving.

“So he's sick?” Fowler looked back up to the Prime.

Optimus remained staring at the projection. “I regret that I have not yet consulted Ratchet on this, as I only saw it this morning, but I believe so, yes.” Fowler frowned, disappointed by the uncertain answer.

“Okay,” he breathed, “what does this mean for us.”

“I am unsure,” Optimus sighed through his abdominal vents, dispersing a wave of heat into the air. “However, I do not believe it is in Megatron's nature to keep Starscream past his usefulness. If Starscream is indeed ill, he surely realizes this.”

“You think he's already split from the 'cons.” Fowler's tone indicated that he already knew the Prime's answer. He didn't wait for the other to respond before continuing. “I'll let my superiors know. Might quell some of their fears. They're scared the cons are allying themselves with other countries, specifically the middle east. We've detected at least two more groups in the area.”

Optimus hummed, returning to his seat with heavy steps. “I doubt that Megatron has allied himself with any human government. He believes your race is far below our own.”

“His loss,” Fowler grumbled, irked by the idea even if he was immensely relieved by the Prime's opinion.

“Understand, Agent Fowler,” Optimus rumbled, optics narrowed. “If another power attacks the United States under Decepticon influence we will defend against any cybertronian, or cybertronian weaponry, but we will not turn our weapons on any humans, despite their allegiance.

Fowler chuckled, easily dispersing the serious atmosphere Prime set. “You made that very clear to us three years ago. General Hallen has no interest in crossing you on that again.”

“I have a great deal of patience, Agent Fowler,” Optimus rumbled with a smile. “However, I believe you understand when I say that I have little tolerance for your government or military.”

Fowler smiled back, nodding sagely. “Probably picked the wrong career then, huh? Is Ratchet done with PT for the moment? Or can we pull him in to talk?”

Optimus rubbed at his finial, scratching behind the audio receptor. “He's currently repairing the ground-bridge. Though his mood seems somewhat low today. From what I gathered therapy did not go as well as planned.”

Fowler hummed. “So not the best idea to get an opinion from him right now?”

“Ratchet is a professional and will behave as such,” Optimus reminded, activating his comm to ping the medic. While the reply was not immediate, Ratchet indicated that he would be there shortly. Months ago, Fowler would have been annoyed at the Prime's silence and distant look, he now understood this as a sign that one of the bots was radioing another and patiently waited.

Eventually the Prime glanced back down to his human company and Fowler assumed he'd finished his conversation. “Quick question, Prime. If the Decepticon command structure were to collapse, all head officers either taken out or defected from the cause as Starscream seems to be, where would trooper loyalties lie?”

Optimus considered for a moment. “Most likely with the highest ranking officer remaining. It's possible that they would form their own faction of sorts. Megatron may deny it, but his troops are more than just drones. Based on Intel from when he first began creating eradicons, we believe they possess a social and command structure within their own ranks. They may fall back on that.”

The special agent sighed heavily, weighing his thoughts. “How hostile towards your troops and humans do you think they'd be on their own?”

There was a knock on the office door, which slid open to admit the Autobot medic. “One moment, Ratchet,” Optimus nodded towards his eldest friend. The medic silently parked his wheelchair against the wall next to Optimus' desk. “From our prior experiences with eradicons separate from any specific orders against humans, they are not inclined to harm your race, though I suspect there will be a good deal of animosity towards our faction. Whether that will translate into violence has yet to be seen.”

“They aren't naturally violent,” Ratchet spoke up. “When I was prisoner to the Decepticons, until ordered otherwise, the vehicons were fairly polite. The eradicons somewhat less so but I suspect that's mostly due to flier superiority rather than anything else.” Optimus' frown deepened as Ratchet spoke, not because of the content of his words but instead the tone with which he said them. It was evident he was agitated, his speech clipped and acerbic. Underneath that, hidden as best as Ratchet could manage, the medic was subdued, far withdrawn behind his barriers. While he had been opening up a great deal as he recovered, Optimus feared even a minor event could send the medic spiraling back into depression. Though no longer ill, Ratchet was not healed. He was wheelchair bound, seizure prone and still extremely weak.

“So we have a chance of swaying them to our side?” Fowler asked, breaking Prime from his thoughts.

“Not while Megatron still stands,” Ratchet shook his helm. “They may not respect him as much as he believes but he does frighten them. They won't betray him so easily. Of all the officers, though, they seem to respect Breakdown the most.” Ratchet adjusted the quilt on his lap as he spoke. His foot twitched with some spacticity.

Optimus hummed in agreement. “We have some chance swaying Breakdown to neutrality if not allying himself with us. Though only as long as Knock Out agrees as well.”

“They seem fairly close, yes,” Fowler agreed absently. Ratchet and Optimus glanced at each other but silently agreed not to comment on the nature of the two's relationship. Fowler waved the topic off, “How about we take a look at those photos? We can work out logistics around the 'cons once we have more information.”

Optimus agreed, queuing up the photo on his monitor for Ratchet to see. “I noticed some graying on Starscream's wings this morning and was wondering your medical opinion.”

Ratchet stared at the photo with a distant look, optics unfocused. After a moment of silence Optimus called his name, fearing the medic had entered an absent seizure.

Ratchet's gaze focused immediately, belaying any fears. “I'm hesitant to breach doctor-patient confidentiality but yes, he's ill.”

“You examined him?” Optimus asked, somewhat peeved that he'd not been informed earlier.

“He came into the medibay while I was aboard the Nemesis. I was not allowed to treat him, however,” the medic explained. Optimus nodded his understanding. Ratchet continued with a tightly drawn expression. “There's no gentle way to put this, and I expect it to not leave this room. Starscream has a good deal of spark contamination, both through penetrative interface and spark rape.”

Optimus was silent, chin resting heavily in his hands. Instead it was Fowler who spoke up. “I'm sorry, I don't understand.”

Ratchet vented, having hoped to never have to explain this aspect of their society to the humans. “We have the ability to be intimate with one and other, and thus that intimacy can be forced.”

“And a rape can cause illness?” Fowler looked equally confused and distraught.

“The spark is a delicate thing, Agent Fowler, there's a reason it's so heavily protected.” Ratchet silently shared in the others horror at what had happened to the Decepticon seeker. “During a spark merge, both participants must consent to a sharing of energies and, as a result, memories, thoughts, and feelings. If one party does not consent to a merge and attempts to resist, their sparks can be damaged. One merge won't do much, as the tear can heal. But if multiple forced merges occur in close proximity the injures compound upon themselves and can eventually snuff a spark.” Ratchet waited patiently while Fowler absorbed the information. As of yet, none of the Autobots had revealed to the humans that they could and did participate in any form of intimacy. Luckily, Fowler seemed more focused on the concept of spark rape than the other form of physical intimacy Ratchet had mentioned.

Finally Fowler spoke. “This damage is killing him, then. How long does he have?”

“From what I saw, at least twenty more years. I would only give him ten before he loses flight. And his frame type has been prone to commit suicide once they lack the ability to fly. Another year and the damage won't be reversible, however,” The medic explained.

“You still believe it reversible?” Optimus asked, sounding distressed.

Ratchet sighed. “For a while? If the contamination is removed now his spark is not likely to continue shrinking. His wings are graying because his spark is losing the ability to power his frame around the tears in it. It's fixable now, but if they grow or, I hate to say it, but if he's raped again, the damaged area will be too much of his spark to remove.”

Optimus hung his helm, optics dimming. “I fear for how far Megatron's sanity has fallen if he believes this an acceptable act, whether he is the one committing it, or allowing it to continue.”

Ratchet placed a hand over Optimus' arm, though he had to lean forward precariously to do so. “I don't think he believes it's okay. He simply doesn't care.”

The Prime nodded. “Fowler, please alert me once you find Starscream's location. I wish to contact him.”

“Of course, Prime. Just be careful, we both know how Starscream can be.” He swung down onto the ladder hooked to Optimus' desk. “I'll talk to the higher-ups and get back to you. Keep in touch.”

“Of course, Agent Fowler,” Optimus intoned. “Thank you for keeping us up to date.” The Prime waited quietly while Fowler left. The motor to Ratchet's wheelchair whirred to life but Optimus stopped him. “Ratchet, a moment please.” The medic turned to the Prime's desk, leaning back in his chair in a more relaxed manner. Optimus pulled a cube of sweetened mid-grade energon from his desk and poured it into two smaller drinking glasses. Ratchet accepted the drink gratefully, knowing Optimus saved such treats for only informal and friendly conversations.

“I promised we would speak further,” Optimus said after a small sip of his drink. “Have you gotten the results of your scan yet?”

Ratchet nodded, burying his expression in his glass. “My back's not healing,” he breathed, never looking up from his energon. “My self-repair center isn't recognizing the damage.”

Optimus wanted to reach out a comforting hand but resisted. “Why did it heal in the first place?”

“I'm not positive.” Ratchet sounded as defeated as he felt. “It's possible that a few repair nanites in the CR chamber escaped reprogramming. It healed just enough to allow for minor movements, and some spasms, but nothing strong or as fine as needed for walking.” The medic swallowed air, optics distant. “I won't walk. Unless we have the materials for a full surgery or a few months of CR time, I won't heal.”

“The injury is that severe?” Optimus asked.

Ratchet placed his glass on the desk, staring at the glowing liquid within. “It's not a matter of severity. My self-repair isn't recognizing the damage. If I were to enter the CR chamber it would be of little use unless we let my back heal completely.” Ratchet sighed, frustrated. “This is fairly common with these types of injury, and with processor damage.”

Optimus hummed, optics soft and concerned. “And you? How are you handling this?”

Ratchet's frown deepened. “I'm... frustrated. Disappointed, I suppose.” He ran a hand over his face. “Optimus, I wanted so badly to walk again.”

“I am sorry, Old Friend.” This time Optimus placed a hand on his eldest companion's shoulder. Ratchet leaned into the touch, taking comfort from it. The Prime moved about the desk to kneel in front of his medic. “If there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Ratchet nodded, but remained otherwise still. Optimus watched silently, allowing the stillness to stretch on.

–

The sensation of going from soundly in recharge to wide awake was never pleasant. It usually left Ratchet unsettled and twitchy for the rest of the day. And now, with a lack of abdominal strength the attempt to sit upright sent the medic slamming back into the berth. Ratchet ignored the aching in the base of his helm in favor of dragging his wheelchair closer. He missed the bar above his berth twice before his shaking hands finally managed a secure grip. He grunted with the speed he pulled himself up and swung into his chair. The lock on the front wheels squealed as it attempted to slide away from him. Ratchet had to catch himself on the edge of the berth and readjust before he could exit his quarters. A door slid open behind him as the medic sped down the halls but he payed it little mind.

The main room was dark except for the eery green glow of the monitors spilling out onto a half asleep Bulkhead. He turned at the whir of the medic's wheelchair. Ratchet ignored his tentative “good morning”, instead allowing the medibay doors to slam shut behind him. The ex-wrecker's look of confusion only deepened as Arcee trotted into the main bay after Ratchet.

She paused, staring at Bulkhead with wide optics. “Ratch go into the medibay?”

Bulkhead nodded. “What's going on?” He asked, brow furrowing in concern.

Arcee shrugged. “No idea. He woke me up cursing. Seemed pretty intent on something.”

Bulkhead pressed a few buttons on the computer keyboard, setting it to sound an alarm in the case of any significant changes and stood. “Should probably go see what he's worked up about.” Arcee followed him silently into the medibay.

Ratchet was rummaging about in a cabinet, the floor around him obscured by discarded supplies. Arcee stepped carefully about a set of scattered wrenches to kneel next to the medic. Ratchet payed her little mind, mumbling to himself while he sifted through a box of multi-colored cables. He pulled out a long blue one and dangled it over Arcee's lap. “Hold this.” A red cable was tossed to the side and another several landed in Arcee's hands before Ratchet pulled away. His wheelchair clanged heavily as it ran over discarded tools.

Arcee jogged behind him back to his desk. She placed her bundle of cables off to the side. Ratchet heaved the small engine on his lap onto his desk. He flipped the switch on the side but the machine only gave a sputtering cough before falling silent. Ratchet cursed, slapping a fist against the side of the engine.

“Bulkhead,” He snapped, now pulling the engine's fuel tank open. “Hand me a jar of energon. Top shelf.”

The green mech glanced nervously to Arcee before doing as asked. He rummaged about in the cabinet for a moment, coming up empty. “There's only synthetic energon in here, Ratch.”

“Well hand it over.” Bulkhead hesitated a moment too long and Ratchet twisted about in his chair. “I'm not going to drink it! It works just fine on non-sentient machinery.” The vial was placed gently in his hand.

With a fresh does of energon, the engine sputtered to life. Ratchet proceeded to rip off a panel that jutted from the side.

Arcee startled, grabbing his hand and pulling it away from the now exposed circuitry. “What on Cybertron are you doing?” She snapped. Ratchet wrenched his hands from her hold, glaring.

“Never grab me when I'm working near a power source,” Ratchet snarled in return. With a shake of his helm and a calming ventilation he returned to the still active motor. A switch on the side shut the machine down, leaving the once buzzing medibay in an uncomfortable silence. Ratchet reached for the bundle of cables Arcee had placed on the work bench, selecting a blue wire. With a quick snip of the existing cables inside the motor, the medic had the battery pack removed and the blue wire woven neatly in it's place. Several more cables followed before he finally stopped, took in a deep bout of air and turned to face his companions.

“It might be possible,” he explained, “to wire a sensor into the base of my spinal column that detects electrical activity and redirects it around the break.” He held up the bundle of cables in his hands as if to emphasis his point. “It all depends on whether or not my nervous system will accept a foreign charge. Normally a new sensor grid would be wired to subvert the break, but we don't have the supplies for that or any other medic to preform the procedure. An external charge might work, but I'm not positive.”

Bulkhead stepped forward from his place across the room. “And you're attempting to test that using an old motor filled with Synth-En?”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “I told you already, synthetic energon works perfectly fine on non-sentient machinery. Only thing the slag is good for actually.” With a short nod and dismissive wave Ratchet handed a clamp to Arcee. “Attach that above the L5 strut. It's magnetic.”

The femme hesitated, looking confused. Bulkhead stepped forward and took the cords from her. “L5 is just below your subspace clasps, right?”

Ratchet glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “Yes, very good.”

Arcee watched, curious. “How'd you know that, Bulk?”

The wrecker shrugged. “Ratchet showed me during PT last week.”

“And you remembered it?” Arcee didn't intended to be condescending, but Bulkhead had never been known for his intelligence.

Bulkhead shrugged, looking nervous. Ratchet answered in his steed. “Turns out he just needs hands on learning instead of texts. I had a few students like that back in the academy.” He paused, fiddling with the motor on the desk. “Will one of you hold my shoulders? I'm only going to send a small charge but seeing as this is connected to my nervous system as a whole, it's going to tense every cable below the break, not just one.”

Arcee came around Ratchet's side while Bulkhead took hold of his shoulders. “Isn't that dangerous?”

“Not necessarily.” Without any further warning Ratchet turned the motor on and tapped the two ends of cable in his hands together, one leading to the motor and the other to his back, completing the circuit. His lower half tensed, pede's curling inward and legs straitening halfway. His knees turned at an odd angle, knocking against each other. With a gasp of static the medic jerked the cords apart.

“Little much,” he panted. “Works though.”

“You know,” Arcee leaned against the desk, arms crossed over her chassis. “I used to think you were smart.”

Ratchet leveled her with an exasperated glare. “It was a test, nothing more. One that worked. If this is a viable solution, I'll use my own power supply to run it.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bulkhead threw a hand up, palm flat. “I thought we were testing to see if a charge from an outside power source would work?”

Ratchet shook his helm. “No, no. We're testing to see if an externally applied charge would work. It doesn't matter where the charge comes from.” He held out a cable towards the wrecker expectantly. “Now help me get some more nodes placed.”

–

By five in the morning, just as the sun had begun to crest over the horizon, Optimus stumbled out of berth and into his office. He pulled a cube of energon from his personal stash, gave the pile of datapads on his desk a long look and decided his time was better spent away from paper work for the moment. At least until he'd woken up some.

Cube in hand, he made his way to the main room of the silo. A flair of agitation crept into the Prime's normally calm EM field upon finding the main monitors unmanned. The computer beeped an unanswered notification. He ran a quick scan of the data over the last hour, praying no Decepticons had slipped passed their radar while Bulkhead had been absent. He'd have to speak to the wrecker about leaving his post. Auto-alert only went so far.

Assured that no human base had been raided in his absence, Optimus flicked over to the notification flashing at the top of the screen. It was a distress signal, labeled as neutral, to his surprise. The Prime skimmed the signal, hoping to find a location attached to the beacon. Instead he found that it was heavily encrypted. Optimus raised a brow. Why send an encrypted distress signal knowing it would take the receiver time to decode the message in order to provide aid?

With a sigh, the Prime began the task of fishing the signal's origin from the transmission. A few lines into scanning the text, however, he froze, recognizing the pattern the symbols had taken.

Medic's crypt. An old form of encryption.

Long before civil war had even been a thought in the minds of miners, the class system had run strong. Nobles competed for the senate's favor, investing innumerable funds and time into improving their reputation while discrediting their friends and neighbors.

An off world trip and improper decontamination resulted in an almost invisible infection in the Polyhexian middle class that hindered low-grade energon consumption. As the noble class only drank more refined fuel, this was not a serious concern for anyone with enough credits to fund research into a cure. For the lower classes it was more problematic and spread through the workers quickly.

This alone would not have been enough reason for a revolution of the medical system, however the illness was only spread through penetrative interfacing. When a noble contracted the virus they were labeled as one who slept beneath their class and thus shamed before his peers, even if he'd contracted the illness through a fellow noble.

Black market operations began to hack medical archives, which were not heavily encoded, in the hopes of gaining leverage over their wealthier clients. Fellow nobles often hired hackers to gather the information to smear their competitor's reputations. Medic's Crypt was put into use to protect patient confidentiality. While it was possible for a non-medic to decrypt the information, it was time consuming and over complex. Most medics carried keys that would give them access to the majority of the information but a CMO's key was needed to see every aspect of the file. Luckily, Ratchet had been one of the highest ranked medics on the planet even after he'd dropped out of politics. He most likely had the most current decryption key.

Prime locked down the computer and went to fetch his medic. The medibay doors slip open silently, revealing Bulkhead crouched behind Ratchet, attaching a set of electrodes to his lower back. The medic was weaving wires into a distributor panel with Arcee's help to steady his hands. Optimus cleared his throat. “Ratchet.”

The medic's head snapped up, shoulder's twisting to look back at his commander. He grinned broadly. “Come look at this, Optimus.” The Prime began to protest but Ratchet cut him off. “Real quick. It'll only take a moment.”

Optimus sighed, shaking his helm but strode over none the less. Ratchet motioned for him to sit on one of the mediberths. The Prime looked curiously over the wires tangled about the medic's frame. Wires ran from a switch board on the desk to snake beneath Ratchet's armor on his legs and lower back. A set of cables even extended down to his pedes. Simple scotch tape held wires against his frame, while electrical tape pressed the exposed circuitry to his protoform.

With a wide grin Ratchet flipped a switch. His left leg lifted from the foot rest of his wheelchair. His lower leg still hung limply, until the medic hit another switch. His leg snapped out, catching Bulkhead in the thigh. Ratchet mumbled an apology, turning the circuits off.

Optimus returned Ratchet's smile, hesitantly. “I'm sorry, Ratchet, but I'm still unsure what you're doing.”

Ratchet waved his confusion off. “This is only the first step. I'll have to build a support structure to hold all the wiring. And the sensor grid will take a while. Might have to bargain with the humans for some more micro-circuits.” Optimus' confused expression only deepened. Ratchet's smile broadened in return, his optics scrunching up. “My back might not be healing, Optimus, but I'll walk again.”

The Prime shuttered his optics, fighting to hide a sigh of relief behind a genuine smile. “I'm happy for you, Old Friend.” He placed a hand on the other's shoulder. “Do not mistake my changing the subject for apathy over this development, but I require your help in the main room.”

Ratchet switched off the switch board on the desk before turning off the generator he'd been using. It powered down with a rattling sigh. “Can't do much more with this right now anyway.” He pulled wires up, careful to pull the tape up with them. “Do you remember if we had any leg braces on the Ark? I know I had at least one. I'll have to see if we had more. Or if they even survived.” Optimus smiled softly, listening to Ratchet's excited rambling. The medic caught the look and frowned. “Come help me out of this if you want my help so badly.”

Arcee patted Ratchet on the shoulder before she and Bulkhead took their leave to pick up the children for school. Optimus rose to help his companion out of the tangle of wires he'd gotten himself into. The Prime's flat fingers proved useful in picking the scotch tape off Ratchet's plating where the medic's round one's could not.

“What do you need my help for anyway, Prime?” Ratchet asked, halfway through bundling up a set of cables.

“We received a transmission, “Optimus explained, placing the last cable on the desk. “It's in medic's crypt.”

Ratchet hummed. “Hopefully I have the key they used. Any idea who it's from?” He followed Optimus out of the medibay, nodding to Bumblebee as the scout went to retrieve his morning ration.

“No, that was encrypted as well.” The Prime entered his personal override to unlock the terminal. Ratchet hummed, studying the code before uncoiling a data cable from his wrist and plugging into the computer.

His brow furrowed. “Fragging human computers. This will take a moment.” Prime nodded, waiting patiently.

“So you do have the key?” Optimus asked, a hand on the handle of Ratchet's wheelchair.

“It's old and fairly low level, but yes.” Ratchet pulled his cable from the computer. “Should be accessible now. I didn't read any of it yet.”

Optimus stepped forward when Ratchet made room for him. The message opened upon command. It became immediately obvious that the distress signal had been sent only on Autobot frequencies. The document contained only a short message, asking for intimidate medical aid and sanctuary. A comm code was attached, one belonging to Knock Out.

“I suppose we should comm. him, then,” Ratchet mumbled, concern over the plea for medical aid hidden behind a thin veil of apathy.

“Remember that we agreed to provide Knock Out and Breakdown with asylum in exchange for the Synth-En research and your medication,” The Prime rumbled, opening a communication link. Ratchet nodded in acknowledgment.

“That's almost what worries me.” The medic rolled lightly back and forth in his chair. “If he's calling us then something big's happened. And with Starscream splitting from the 'Cons...” He shook his helm. “This could be very good for us, or very bad.”

Optimus smiled down at his friend. “We'll have to hope for the best.” The computer beeped its success in opening a communication line. Both Autobot's turned their attention to the screen. The camera didn't capture low enough to get more than the tip of Ratchet antenna in the frame. He minded little.

The image that came through from the other end showed a battered and scuffed Knock Out, framed by dim cavern walls. His headlights and optics provided the only source of light in the cave, casting his normally pristine features in eery shadows. He seemed almost shocked to see Optimus at the other end of the comm..

“Oh, thank Primus,” he breathed, frame visibly relaxing. His left optic was dimmer than the right and a large scratch stretched from his right eyebrow to the base of his left optic. Even through the comm. it was obvious the lens was cracked. “I need help, quickly. I've stopped most of the energon loss but there's a crack in his spark chamber and-”

Optimus held up a hand, speaking over the distraught race car to get his attention. “Slow down, Knock Out.”

“You promised to help us!” The 'Con medic lurched forward, an angry set to his thin lips. “That was the deal.”

Optimus nodded placatingly. “We will do everything in our power to help you, Knock Out. But you need to calmly explain what happened. I will not send my troops into a potentially dangerous situation we know nothing of.”

Knock Out took a deep vent, visibly forcing himself to calm. “Megatron's gone mad. He attacked Breakdown, I don't know why.” The sports car curled in on himself a touch further. “I stopped what bleeding I could find but his spark containment is failing. I don't know what medical training any of you have. I just need supplies. A life support system, or a CR Chamber if you have one. I know it's not much but I was Megatron's best medic. I can do the same for your troops.” Ratchet chose to remain silent and out of the camera's range for the time being. The Decepticon was obviously working under the assumption that he'd succumb to the glitch.

Optimus cut the mech off with a nod. “Do you believe Megatron will return for you?”

Knock Out shook his helm in small, rapid motions. “No. He's refused to leave the ship for three weeks. He's not going to change that now.”

The Prime nodded. “I'm sending Bulkhead and Bumblebee to retrieve you and your partner.” He tapped at the keyboard, entering the coordinates into the ground bridge while he commed the two soldiers.

Ratchet rolled backwards into the camera's view while his leader worked. Knock Out's optics widened in disbelief when the Autobot medic spoke. “Why won't Megatron leave the ship? He was never particularly sane to begin with but it sounds like he's snapped.”

“You're alive,” Knock Out breathed. Optics darting to the side and brow furrowing as if he were recalculating his place in the exchange. After a moment he shook himself, rattling the thoughts free. “No, no it's... it's not just madness, it's...” He paused, rearranging his thoughts. Optics blank and mouth at a hard set, he breathed deeply. “Soundwave is dying.”

–

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this story is over, the series is not. The tale will be continued in Linchpin.
> 
> Thank you everyone that has stuck with me and with this story for the last three years. And a huge thanks to anyone who has commented; you've kept me writing.


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